


Kali Yuga

by Tales (orphan_account)



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically everyone here, Gen, Implied Relationships, Reincarnation, Tainted AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 06:11:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10870743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Tales
Summary: Kali Yuga.The age of chaos. One man is tasked to kill the Shepherd in order to end calamity. At the end of his mission what will he find?





	Kali Yuga

**Author's Note:**

> "Come, let us take a muster speedily:  
> Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily."-  
> -Henry IV Part I, Act IV, scene 1

* * *

 

“ _If you want me to murder Sorey, why won't you tell me anything about him?”_

 

“ _You're not going to_ murder _So-”_

 

“ _You_ said _I would.”_

 

“ _Being with you always reminds me how - simplistically - human view the world. It feels so nostalgic.”_

 

“ _But you_ said _-”_

 

“ _I should have never said anything. Dear, Sorey is already dead.”_

 

* * *

 

Mikleo had never seen anyone hold a baby before. The young father cradled his two hour's old son's head, so small it fit comfortably against his right palm. His left arm rested under his son's spine. The father had wiped the long splash of blood against his pants leg, cleaning off his hand before he touched the baby again, after he'd dropped the knife.

 

Mikleo's attention swung irresolutely between the father and the crowd that had surrounded the mother, trying to comfort her. Her sobbing had stopped. Mikleo couldn't see her anymore.

 

“What's the matter?”

 

Mikleo jumped and turned to face the girl next to him, Annie, the twelve year old daughter of the family he was staying with.

 

“What's the matter?” Mikleo repeated, his eyebrows rising, aghast and incredulous. He gestured to the hut, where the father was now walking away, still carrying his bleeding burden. “He just-”

 

Annie shuffled her feet in the dust, her chin rumpling as she pushed her lower lip out.

 

“Yeah, but - hey. What else was he going to do? At least he didn't club the baby. That takes so long, and-” Her eyes darkened a moment. “Well, they still have two other kids.”

 

Mikleo crossed his arms, as if to protect himself, disturbed by what he'd seen and the calmness of Annie's tone. “I've never seen anyone killed before. Let alone a baby.”

 

Annie's gray eyes widened. “You said you were from far away but - _where_?”

 

Mikleo pressed his lips together and shook his head.

 

Annie looked up at him. “Well, let's go back to getting those nettles for Mama.”

 

Mikleo glanced back at the crowd. When they'd heard that the couple was due to have their new baby, everyone had gathered; Mikleo was surprised at how fast the news traveled, as none of the huts of this community were close together. After a moment, he shook himself and followed Annie up the mountainside.

 

“That _really_ doesn't happen where you come from?” Annie said after they'd been gathering for a quarter hour. Though he'd only been with Annie's family for less than a day, Mikleo was already quite familiar with Annie's wheedling. “How do you keep the Dragons and Malevolence away?”

 

Mikleo paused before dropping a nettle into his basket. “I get it.”

 

“Get what?”

 

He looked squarely at Annie. “That's why everyone lives so far apart. So you're not in a town.”

 

“What's a town?”

 

“So you don't draw the Dragons' attention or accumulate too much Malevolence. And you...make sure families don't get too large, because...” Mikleo thought hard for a moment, remembering what he'd studied. Seeing the reasoning behind it didn't lessen his horror. “Because I guess you'd need a town if you had to feed a lot of people.”

 

Annie cocked her head. “Um, _duh_.” She stared at Mikleo a moment. “So, how do you keep it away?”

 

Mikleo focused on his hands, pulling nettles. “There aren't any Malevolence where I come from.”

 

Annie raised her eyebrows. “Really? Wow.” There was unmistakable skepticism in her voice. “So...what's it like there? Does it rain milk or something?”

 

Mikleo looked down the barren mountainside. “Well, there's clean water. Streams, I mean. And, um, flowers.”

 

“Flowers?” Annie repeated dubiously. Then she sniffed and stood. “Look, you don't have to lie to me just because I'm a kid.”

 

“I'm not.”

 

“Then you're stupid.” She grabbed Mikleo's basket and started down the mountainside. “Mama said the flowers all disappeared years and years ago.”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Having hardly slept that night, Mikleo left early the next morning. Even after the walk back with Annie, the coolness from her parents, and a night of tossing and turning on their hut floor, Mikleo still hadn't banished the image of that baby from his mind. The first baby he'd ever seen and...the way his father had held the knife over his soft throat. Mikleo had seen the red gush of blood before, but only from animals. The baby hadn't cried out. Was that normal?

 

They routinely killed each other here. Why hadn't he been told that?

 

Mikleo left without waiting to tell the family goodbye.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Though he didn't think Annie had been lying to him, Mikleo couldn't help scanning his surroundings for any sign of green. Broken-edged rocks studded the terrain, probably having tumbled down from the mountains. The ground itself was dry, dusty above a layer of hard bedrock that punished Mikleo's legs. Well away from the mountains, he stopped in his trek, revolving. A dingy overcast sky stretched overhead, met on every horizon by badlands. Plants? A few. Small thorn bushes, mostly. Mikleo knelt, rubbing his forefinger in the dirt. It had a faint ashy smell. Volcanism? Maybe.

 

Coldness skittered across his back.

 

He tensed, but he took a deep breath, trying to make his movements smooth, as though he wasn't aware he was being watched. He rubbed his palm into the dust, brought his hand up as if to examine it. Was it another human watching him or an animal? How could he know? He'd never been watched by another human before. He felt the heat before he saw the blast of light shooting towards his back. He wrenched his body around, falling to his elbow, feeling a slap of heat as the laser passed just over his shoulder. Lifting himself into a crouch, Mikleo ran a few steps, pulling free his ceremonial blade, watching as another laser collided with the weapon, the red blade absorbing the light, warming it. Mikleo danced back a step, casting around. The laser had come from his left, but- -Another beam of light shot from nowhere, entirely out of the air. Mikleo dodged and ran towards its source, drawing his blade back to swing. He didn't really know what he was doing, he just knew he had to do something violent.

 

As his blade swung down, a broad, gray being materialized in front of him. Mikleo had only time to see that it was vaguely humanoid, before his blade cut into its shoulder, grinding. Long, gleaming arms lunged towards him, and without thinking, he hacked one off, then the other. He bit his lower lip. It hadn't argued or made excuses. It was all but making him kill it. With a concerted thrust from his back and shoulders, he drove his blade into its middle, haloing the blade with crackling purple lightning, racing up the blade and right into Mikleo's hands. He cried out, dropping the weapon, barely aware of his enemy evaporating like mist. Mikleo slapped his hand against his leg, but the feeling hadn't been gone for more than a moment. He picked up the red blade, the metal hilt warm. Was that an attack he shouldn't have been able to live through?

 

After he'd been traveling for the better part of the day, eating as he walked (his bread and dried fruit seemed far too sweet for this world), he finally saw a change in his surroundings. Far away, obscured both by distance and the low smog of dust over the land, he saw flashing veils of light, twisting pillars of wind. Mikleo stopped a moment, considering.

_You didn't really tell me what to do. Well, you told me, often enough, but you didn't tell me how to do it. Or what I'd see when the time came. Or...anything I need to know right now._

 

It was something different, whatever it was. A fight. Perhaps weather. In any case, he needed to find something other than dust and rock to give him clues. He set out at a jog.

 

As he came closer, he heard shouts, clangs, and the whirling light and wind resolved itself into human shapes. A fight then. He slowed down, wanting to assess the situation rather than throw himself into a conflict.

 

A man with ash blond hair stood closest to him, his back to Mikleo, his white cape snapping as he gathered energy into his raised weapon. A sword? Another tall man with red cape and darker brown hair was not far from the brown haired man. Beyond him, four warriors circled each other, several in battered plate mail. Studying their stances and positions, Mikleo saw that they had ganged up on wiry man with an obscured face, flying above them. He had a...Mikleo squinted. His hands were empty but his flamming sword, enourmous in size and almost as broad as himself, floated behind him, along with several slimmer but longer green swords which fanned out like wings and also a pair of giant yellow gauntlets in either side of him. Mikleo squinted. That... fire, wind, and earth elements, all wielded by one person?

 

“Crush him.”

 

The red caped man's voice was faint over the surrounding winds, a loud crash as one of the knights attempted to attack; still floating, the giant green sword swept forward and parried the lunge. The wind was picking up, slamming against Mikleo. He crouched to a genuflect, keeping himself close to the ground as the wind buffeted him.

 

“Seize him.”

 

Wind blasted across him. Mikleo threw himself to the ground, digging his fingers into the dust, certain the wind was about to pick him up. He thought he heard cries - it was impossible to tell over the loud roars of the gales. The moment he felt the winds slacken, he jumped up- - and rolled to the side, feeling a flare of fire- -heat and the ground shake as it split open. As he struggled back to his feet, one hand was already reaching for the blade on his back- -which scraped out of his scabbard as he dove for the ground again, a lightning bolt arching over him.

 

 _“I don't want to fight you!”_ he shouted. Then he realized he'd shouted in entirely the wrong language. He shifted to the language of the current human. “Please! I don't want to fight you!”

 

“So they always say,” a man's voice said from not far off. A different voice, also male, _hmph_ ed, offering no other commentary. “But what were you saying at first? I didn't quite...hear.”

 

Mikleo had never lied before. He'd never had to. He took his time in rolling to his knees, glancing at the bodies of the knights. Neither of his assailants had stepped closer to him, though he could now see both of their faces - after a fashion. The flying one with three elements already gone. The red caped man wore a black half-mask, leaving only his chin and mouth showing, short brown hair which was swept back and red cape beating the wind behind him. He had the mask styled like a lion and it even had fake mane and maybe later Mikleo'd think that was funny. The other man, dressed in white robe with strange patterns swirls almost like eyes, most of his face hidden by his bangs. Carefully, Mikleo returned his blade to the sheath on his back, not comfortable with the way the movement left his chest and side momentarily vulnerable.

 

Even after all that, the best he could say was, “I was scared.” he knew it had come too late.

 

The masked man turned away. “Get out of my sight, kid.”

 

Mikleo climbed to his feet, then realized the other man was still watching him. He wished he could read his expression. Mikleo also wished he hadn't sheathed his blade. He cleared his throat. The two man weren't normal human. They had to be.

 

“Well, thanks.” Not entirely sure what he was thanking them for, but all right.

 

“Who are you?” the man with the white robe asked, his voice oddly ragged.

 

Mikleo drummed his fingers against his thigh. “Just on a journey, that's all.”

 

The ragged edge intensified. “Whose is that circlet?”

 

Mikleo glanced over his forehead, all that wind previously must gave the man a temporary clear view of his forehead.

 

“Um -” he glanced back at the strange man, afraid he was going to attack Mikleo. “It was given to me.”

 

He didn't step towards Mikleo, but Mikleo had the unwelcome feeling that the distance between them was disappearing. “Who did it?”

 

“Do you know where it's from?” Mikleo countered. “I don't.”

 

The man with the white robe didn't answer, but he didn't look away. Mikleo took a step to his left.

 

“I need to keep going.”

 

The red caped man with the lion mask glanced at him, then the other. When he spoke, his voice had a deliberate boredom.

 

“Do you want the circlet, Michael?” Again, there was no answer. Finally, the masked man let his attention rest on Mikleo. “Who are you, kid?”

 

Though it was probably a misconception, his voice seemed less threatening than Michael's. Mikleo made a quick decision.

 

“I'm looking for the Shepherd.”

 

Mikleo thought he saw the masked man's lip curl.

 

“Then you're going in the right direction.” For a moment, he braced, thinking he was about to attack, but he only said, “Continue south. You'll find Dame du lac.”

 

Dame du lac? Lady of the lake? Was that a person?

 

“What is-” The man was already walked away. Michael also turned, though the movement seemed more reluctant. He gave Mikleo one last glance before moving off. Seeing that he couldn't hold their attention long, Mikleo switched tact. “Who are you?”

 

“The name's Georg Heldalf the fourth,” came the answer. “Now begone, kid.”

 

And faster than he thought was possible, they had disappeared into the dust.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Probably one of the first things you'll realize is that you're not like them. It may frustrate you.”_

 

_“Why? Maybe I like being different.”_

 

_“You hardly know you're different, sweetheart.”_

 

* * *

 

 

The same day after parting from the two mysterious people, Mikleo came across a hut, not so different from Annie's. A young woman, Mikleo realized - sat outside it, scraping an animal hide with a sharpened bone. Her shoulders hunched when she saw the red blade, so Mikleo didn't step close.

 

“Are you Dame du lac?”

 

The woman blinked her big eyes. “What?”

 

“I guess not.” Mikleo chewed his lower lip and looked south. It had grown too dark to see any great distance. “What _is_ Dame du lac?”

 

“Oh hell, you're one of them,” the woman muttered. Surprised, Mikleo turned to see her backing into her hut. “Just move on. I don't want anything to do with your quest, or whatever.” She swung the door flap closed.

 

Mikleo stared at the door flap for a moment, hoping the woman would come back out and explain herself. Mikleo could force his way in - he doubted the woman had much to protect herself with. He shook his head, fishing in his traveling bag. He withdrew a dried apricot and placed it by the hide.

 

“I'm sorry for frightening you. I'll go now.” And he did. Maybe the woman had never seen a fruit before. She'd probably think it was cursed and want to get rid of it. Still...

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Mikleo rolled over, almost hitting the large rock he was camped against. Even after three days, he still found it hard to sleep without hearing her voice.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

He started off before dawn, and as the light rose on his left, he finally made out a shape in the distance. He stopped, having never seen anything like it. That towering shadow - was that a...castle? Smaller, angular shapes jumbled around it, indistinct from the darkness. The wind blew towards him, carrying the scent of smoke, fresh smoke.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

When he saw the skeletons, he didn't flinch or draw back. He'd already seen many, humanoid and animal, over the past few days, scattered worthlessly across the mountains and wastelands. But now he did catch his breath, because this was the first time he'd ever seen a pile of them, heaped deliberately together. A pyre? Some of them were burnt, but the scorch marks didn't cover all of them. A battle monument then.

 

Mikleo stood and stared at the jungle of bones, crossing each other, held within each other's grasp, the dusty darkness of the eye sockets. None moved, but something in the skulls' mouths held him there, their teeth bared wider than they'd been bared in life, manic smiles. He reached forward and touched a human's skull, almost surprised it didn't snap his fingers off. He'd never touched a dry human bone before. It was warm, grained slightly, almost like wood.

 

He'd killed animals before. Usually he'd been set after predators, to train him for combat. They didn't often show fear before they died. Had these people?

 

 _You've never really shown me death before._ He removed his hand from the skull. _I think that was an oversight._

 

It was only the first of several haphazard ossuaries he encountered. The ground was studded not only with the broken remnants of a stone road but with human remains. Most of them were entirely bones, but others bore tatters of cloth, dark coats of what must have been skin. The closer he came to the castle, the more whole the remains were. He pressed his lips together, pressed his hand over his nose, trying not to inhale deeply. He also began to hear voices. Then he saw the walls, stones crumbled like spilled grain. People talked or strolled among the wreckage, most of them lumped under the shell of the front gate. Looking up, Mikleo saw a few bars sticking out from the arch. Maybe that had been a portcullis. Beyond and above was the castle, slender and intricately carved. Judging from the broad scorch marks across its face, it had seen a lot.

 

As Mikleo was looking up, a dirty paper flapped in the wind and landed across his face. He swiped it, jumping almost as if it had been an animal. Someone hooted. He glanced at the crowd. A few people, male and female, watched him. One woman smiled.

 

Mikleo angled the paper up. _Sale on Musical Toilet Plungers at the Scatteredfeathers'! This weekend only!_

 

Mikleo blinked and dropped the flyer, which landed in a puddle of something brown. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped towards the gate. No one moved aside to let him pass, but no one blocked his way. He looked to either side, expecting to see the armored figures that would be guards, but there were none. He crossed under.

 

He'd seen visions of cities, and this must be one, but it was in worse repair than the walls, buildings toppled, flattened, marked only by stone foundations and a few pillars. Strange wheels, probably used to be a water wheels before, were broken beyond repair. Small huts and tents crouched in their slight shelters. The streets were crowded, but not loud.

 

Just as he'd made this observation, a man's voice cut through the air. “Look at you! Are you sane? Bowed down under the monster titled the Shepherd! The Lord of Calamity! How can you live your lives like this?”

 

Mikleo turned. Most of the people were very carefully keeping their heads down, but he followed the few who were moving further into the ruined city.

 

“Dame du lac was a city of glory! The seat of The Knight Queen! The birthplace of Queen Alisha! Look at it now - a cesspit! A shit-heap, crawling with disease! How do you live in it?”

 

So the city was Dame du lac. The other name, Alisha, left no impression on Mikleo.

 

The orator stood on the ruined wall of a house, his dented plate mail murky in the overcast light. He had his helmet under his arm, and Mikleo could see that he looked not much older than him, brown-haired, broad-faced and freckled.

 

“For two hundred years, we've cowered to the Shepherd. What has it gained us? Can anyone say? Nothing!” He punched his gloved fist into the air. “We've let the abomination oppress us, we've let him spill our blood! The blood of your parents, your grandparents, is buried beneath this rubble. No more! Their souls cry out to be avenged! Kill the Lord of Calamity! Who will go with me?”

 

A group of warriors, armored similarly to the orator, brandished their fists and shouted. They were the only ones.

 

“Daft,” a middle-aged man next to Mikleo muttered. “Are we ever going to be done with this?”

 

“Remember the group last month?” a younger woman asked, turning to him. “I really thought we'd persuaded them not to try it.”

 

Mikleo shifted his weight. “Do people normally try to kill the Shepherd?”

 

The man glanced at him, then snorted. “Every few months or so, yeah, some idiots come through.” Mikleo tried to ignore the fact that his heartbeat had sped up, just a moment. “And you don't see them again.” he glanced at the castle.

 

“Why do you want to live here? I thought people lived apart to avoid the Shepherd and the Dragons' attention.”

 

The man seemed surprised he still had questions to ask. He was already moving on, putting his arm around the woman's shoulders.

 

“The Shepherd's not going to destroy his own city, is he?”

 

Mikleo watched him walk away, then looked up at the orator. He had turned to his followers, crouching down to talk quietly. Swallowing, Mikleo strode through the dispersing crowd.

 

“Excuse me-?” Several of the group turned, making him suddenly aware of his lack of armor. The orator's eyes widened when he saw Mikleo. Mikleo glanced around at the others' faces, but didn't give himself time to study their expressions. “I'd like to go with you.”

 

The orator didn't speak for a moment, blinking slowly. Then he whooped.

 

“Of course! I knew you couldn't all be cowards!”

 

“Bertram.”

 

An armored woman stepped forward, her chin length brown hair tinged with gray. Severe lines bracketed her mouth. “Wait a minute.”

 

Bertram grimaced. “What, Ardis?”

 

“He's only a child, you can't let him risk his life like this.”

 

He lifted his eyebrows. “We need every blade we can get. If we don't destroy the Shepherd, he may not live to be an adult.”

 

Ardis frowned, then turned to Mikleo. “Can you use that sword? How old are you?”

 

“I'm twenty,” Mikleo replied. “And yes, I can.”

 

The female knight's lips tightened. Her voice wasn't scornful, more resigned. “Still a child then.”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Mikleo frowned down at the small bowl of beans Bertram had given him.

 

“They're good,” he insisted. “What, don't you have anywhere you come from?”

 

Mikleo shrugged and nibbled one. It was bland and mealy, but he was hungry and reluctant to break out his exotic fruits in front of the others. They'd let him sit with them around their campfire, under the shade of a ruined building, but he didn't feel like one of them.

 

“I've done some scouting,” one of the knights said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And the rumors are true - there aren't any guards. It looks like you can walk right into the castle.”

 

Ardis drummed her fingers on her knee. “I'm not sure that's a good thing. There are probably traps inside.”

 

“According to the writings of Sergei of Rolance.” one knight spoke up, “there are no traps, but there are guards further in.”

 

“Sergei wrote that a hundred and twenty years ago,” another knight snapped. “It's probably changed.”

 

A young knight picked at his stubble thoughtfully. “The Lord of Calamity redecorates?”

 

“All of this is useless,” Bertram broke in. He sat next to Mikleo and gave him a heartening smile. “Delia's right, we don't know how much the Shepherd's fortifications have changed. We can't know what to expect. We just have to accept that.”

 

Mikleo fingered the edge of his bowl. “Lots of people have tried this, right?”

 

Bertram seemed to think about it. “Most people never dare go near the Lord of Calamity.” He shrugged. “If you stay away and don't do anything crazy, he's not likely to come after you. And others try to curry favor with him, but that...seems to demand more than any mortal can give. But, yes, over the years, there have been many attempts to kill him.” He threw a stick onto the fire. “Not enough.”

 

Mikleo tried to gauge his mood, wondering if he were about to insult him. “And what are we going to do differently?”

 

Several of the knights looked over, distantly. Finally Ardis spoke.

 

“You mean a secret plan?” She cocked her eyebrow. “Child, we're fighting a god. There's nothing we can plan that will save us. We're looking for luck.” She took a drink from her tin mug. “You want to back out?”

 

“No.”

\--------------------------------------------------

“What are you doing?”

 

Mikleo looked down at Bertram. He sat cross-legged on the building's remaining wall, staring up at the castle. He couldn't see much of it in the night, only its shape where it blotted out the stars.

 

“Nothing.” He'd been wondering if everything, everything would be over by this time tomorrow. “I couldn't sleep.” Which was true enough.

 

The man crossed his elbows on the wall. “I don't blame you. You know...you're very young. As grateful as I am for your support, you shouldn't do this unless you're sure.”

 

“I'm sure,” Mikleo said, almost before he'd finished.

 

He looked startled, then smiled. “Ah. I see.”

 

“What?”

 

Bertram studied his gauntlet. “Ever since I was little, I've wanted to kill Lord of Calamity, The Shepherd. Save the world. So did others, but they outgrew it. I never have.” He laughed slightly. “You too?”

 

Mikleo lifted his eyes to the castle again. “I suppose so.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“What I don't understand is...why don't you kill him?”_

 

_“I'm not sure it's my place.”_

 

_“What? But why?”_

 

_“The Shepherd will never come for Seraphim. I am not his intended victim.”_

 

* * *

 

 

They had a map of the castle. However, it was not the original, having been copied and recopied over the years, so its accuracy couldn't be guaranteed. Furthermore, it had first been drawn by Sergei of Rolance, was more than a century out of date, and so might be the next best thing to useless.

 

“Three hundred and four rooms,”

 

Mikleo heard Bertram mutter as he and the knights made their way down the streets, still dark in the early morning. “Twenty three windows, none on the ground floor. Five stories above-ground, three below.”

 

“The throne room isn't far in,” one of the knights spoke up, obviously trying to sound perky.

 

“If the Shepherd's still waiting there,” another one said more gloomily.

 

“Do you remember that old rope-skipping song? _Alisha the Knight Queen, weary and dead. The Shepherd has sawed off her head. She's bound to the throne, tied up with twine. And passing her word to the petitioners' line._ ”

 

“I never did much rope-skipping.”

 

Ahead, Mikleo heard Ardis mutter, “No guards.” The castle's great doors stood open - in fact, there were no doors.

 

Even in the half light, Mikleo could see the melted remains of their hinges, claw-like scorch marks around the opening. Even the edges of the door frame were warped and ragged. It was too dark to see inside.

 

One of the knights carried a mage's staff in lieu of a sword, and she lifted it, letting the globe on its top glow. Faint light swept in front of them, gliding over a mosaic-patterned floor, the torn corner of a long carpet.

 

“I'll go first,” Bertram said, his voice hushed.

 

They watched him as he stepped inside, his boots making soft taps on the mosaic. He drew his sword, and the others followed his example. He waited until he'd gone twenty paces before calling the others to him. Mikleo stood close to the mage, so he had a good view as the entry swelled with light, its haze playing off the walls. Some were painted, the paint cracked and missing, others bore long scars down them.

 

“Staircase,” Ardis breathed, pointing forward.

 

Ahead of them, a shallow staircase led to a raised gallery, hallways branching to either side. There were two tall doors in the center, their faces pocked with holes. They probably had been full of precious metals or gems, Mikleo guessed. If Sergei's map was to be trusted, they led to the throne room.

 

“ _Alisha the Knight Queen, weary and de-_ ”

 

It was the same knight as before. One of his companions wheeled around and elbowed him in the chest, hissing, “What're you doing?”

 

The first knight grimaced. “Why should we go creeping up to him? Why shouldn't we-”

 

Ardis' whisper cut across them. “What was that?”

 

Most of them braced. _That_ had been a long grinding sound as of heavy metal machinery. Mikleo slightly bent his legs, bracing for an attack. The floor vibrated.

 

Ardis cried out, and then half of them were running for the staircase, the other half for the front door. Meanwhile, the floor was shaking, tilting. Maybe some of them made it out, but Mikleo had been heading for the staircase. No one reached it. At the foot of the staircase, a seam opened in the mosaic floor, and the entire floor tilted to the left, tipping over a black pit. Mikleo lost his footing, his hip crashing against the floor, then he was sliding, desperately trying to keep hold of his blade hilt. A hard, metal body collided with him. The floor was almost vertical. They were falling.

 

Something broke Mikleo's fall, something cold that let out a horrible, gassy smell when he hit it. He rolled immediately off it, his shoulders hitting sharp thin bones - a ribcage. There was groaning all around him. Someone was gasping.

 

The magelight flared. The first thing Mikleo saw was one of the knights, eyes wide, a sword sticking up through his chest. The knight who'd landed next to him screamed and released the sword.

 

“I - I didn't - he just-”

 

“Fell onto the sword.” Bertram's voice shook. “Pick up your sword, Arthur, you'll need it.”

 

“My arm-” one of the knights gasped.

 

“Dalia's not moving,” another said.

 

Mikleo struggled to stand, pushing down with his feet. His heel broke through something brittle and dry, while all around bones jabbed into his skin. He dug down with his foot but couldn't find the floor. The bones suddenly slid under him, and he clawed his way up them, afraid of being buried. The knights' voice came indistinctly all around him.

 

“I took care of Edmond.”

 

“But - it was only a broken arm, he could've-”

 

“Never have kept up. Maybe these two are better off.”

 

“Maotelus have mercy on us, do we have to leave them here?”

 

“They don't know the difference now.”

 

“We need to get out.”

 

“If there's a way out.”

 

“Where's Liam?”

 

“I think she made it to the door.”

 

“Maybe she'll get help-?”

 

“Do you think the Shepherd can hear us?”

 

“Everyone!” Bertram raised his voice. “We need to calm down. Let's look for a way out.”

 

“What makes you think there's a way out?” Ardis snapped, wiping a trail of blood from her forehead.

 

Bertram was already moving off, walking carefully through the bones and - yes, more complete bodies. Mikleo wavered to his feet along with the others, crunching their way after Bertram, the knight mage holding her staff high.

 

Eventually, they heard Bertram's short laugh, then metal squealing. “The bastard wants to play with his mousies.”

 

“What?” said several voices.

 

A metal door high in the wall stood open. “It wasn't even locked,” Bertram panted. “A bit stiff, that's all. C'mon.”

 

Ardis' voice rasped. “This is going to lead to another trap.”

 

“Absolutely.” Bertram clambered through the door. “But we can't stay here.”

 

“I'll go next,” Ardis barked before anyone else could offer. They climbed through behind him.

 

The door led into a humid, dark tunnel, entirely unventilated. Mikleo rubbed his palm over his blade hilt. It was familiar, making him think of home. This was nothing like home.

 

He heard a soft click behind him.

 

Several of the knights had already wheeled before Mikleo turned around, so they got the facefuls of zombie. Skeletons and corpses poured through the small door. Hellions. Mikleo lifted his blade, sending out a bolt of energy, trying to stop them as they spilled through. Bertram was shouting. They were breaking some of the skeletons, but more bloomed through the opening, radiating across the floor, walls and ceiling.

 

So anyone who could run ran.

 

Mikleo felt naked fingerbones claw down his back, his hip. He jabbed out with his elbow, not hitting anything. He could hear the other knights around him, grunts, labored breathing, the clattering tattoo of the skeletons. Someone cried out - he distinctly heard Bertram scream. The magelight had dropped behind. The ground was level, but what were they running towards? Awkward as he sprinted, Mikleo lifted his sword and shot a beam of light out in front of him -

 

\- just as a small patch of floor dropped away under his feet.

 

He thought he'd seen spikes at the end of the tunnel. He didn't hear anyone falling after him.

 

Cold water smacked against him, swallowing him. He kicked out with his back legs, concentrating. Sharp pain jabbed through his forehead, the blade vanished, and he was able to use his hands. He broke to the surface, blinking around him. There was no light.

 

He floated on his back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his heart to stop slamming his chest, trying not to think about how something large and hostile might be sharing this pool. He saw no sign of the tunnel he'd fallen from, nor any of the knights. Nor the skeleton hellions.

 

Water always calmed him. The water was cool on his skin, rocking him back and forth, and he wanted to close his eyes and relax. He cleared his throat, as if to remind himself he couldn't, but more to hear his own voice in the darkness. He didn't feel like he was underground. He didn't feel like he was anywhere. He paddled, not allowing himself to hope it would do him any good.

 

Eventually, after more than a minute, he bumped against a rough stone shore. Mikleo turned himself over, heaved his dripping form onto the bank - no, it seemed to the floor of a chamber. He glanced up at the unseen ceiling again, whispering a brief prayer for the others. To whom? In times of peril, you were supposed to pray to the Shepherd, so he could connect your prayer to the Seraphim, asking them to guide you safely.

 

He doubted that would do much good these days.

 

He closed his eyes, pain tapping his forehead again, and the blade reappeared in his hands. He tightened his grip and began to walk, his wet shoes slapping against the stone floor noisily. He held his free hand out in front of him, feeling for a wall. He eventually found one and followed it as it began to curve, the floor rising steeply. He had no way of gauging time, but it felt like many minutes before he gashed his shoes open against a stair tread. Mikleo didn't give himself the luxury of limping, climbing the stairs. Why wasn't he being attacked anymore?

 

Mikleo didn't count the stairs. He thought it might do him more psychological harm than good. The stairs had begun to corkscrew. Was he in a tower? No, he couldn't have gone far enough. At least he was going up.

 

Then he saw a patch of gray light. He hurried towards it, ignoring his smarting foot.

 

It was one of the twenty-three windows, small and unglazed. It looked out to the west. He could see the ragged line of the courtyard wall, some of the wrecked city beyond. It was only ten or so feet from the ground, and he could easily fit through.

 

He put one hand on the windowsill. A small guillotine dropped from a slot in the windowframe, crashing to the sill below.

 

Mikleo had jumped backwards, one hand pressed to his heart. He glanced at his fingers. All there.

 

With a small grinding sound, the guillotine lifted and retracted into its slot. Mikleo swallowed, not going to test if it worked a second time. He continued up the stairs.

 

Almost immediately, he came to a door. He stood in front of it, resisting the weirdest impulse to knock. Right at Death's door... was that what people talked about? Should he laugh?

 

He rested his forehead against the door, trying to clear his thoughts. His heart was hammering, making it difficult to breathe. He slipped his hand down the stone door until he found the latch. He twisted it.

 

The door opened inward, very quietly. On the other side was a threadbare tapestry.

 

Mikleo blinked. Oh. It must have been a secret passage then, when this castle had been full of nobles, built to ensure the nobles safety. Was it two hundred years old? No, probably much older than that, as old as the castle itself. He slipped around the tapestry, dust clogging his nose for a moment. The room was pitch black. Considering a moment, he sheathed his blade and dropped to his hands and knees, crawling across the floor. The carpet sent up unseen plumes of dirt. His fingers found a bedpost, then a small footstool, then the cold curve of a chamber pot. Then a doorjamb. He rose and tried it. It stuck a moment, then jerked open.

 

Hands held in front of him, he eased his way into the hallway. Were his hands shaking? He frowned, trying to make them stop. His fingers hit the wall. _I'm in the Shepherd's house and all I'm trying to do is not bump into things._

 

He heard voices.

 

Mikleo tensed, looking up. They came from above.

 

He felt along the wall until he came to another stairway. As he rose, the voices became clearer.

 

“...hasn't been seen for weeks...displeased?”

 

“...dead?”

 

“...One of the dragon...Lasstonbell...couldn't do it without...”

 

“My lord...testing us.”

 

He saw thin bars of light in the darkness - light shining behind another door. The voices were on the other side.

 

“The fire dragon has halted before Lasstonbell. The king will have to sue for peace.”

 

“True, but where's the earth dragon? She's no longer in Marlind, from what I can tell. Have you spoken with him?”

 

“Ho ho, the earth dragon may be deviating from my lord's path. It shall not go unpunished.”

 

Mikleo picked himself off the floor. He'd crouched to see if he could see under the doorjamb. He saw reddish, mellow light, some moving feet. They seemed to be crowded around a table, but he couldn't discern anything else. He drew his blade. Only one thing to do now.

 

He opened the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Sleep, my darling child.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Five figures straightened as Mikleo stepped in. He glanced away from them only to assess the parameters of the room - wide, marginally lit by a broad fireplace, fairly uncluttered - before focusing on them again, bracing for an onslaught.

 

“Who are you?” one man asked, making no move toward him. He was a tall man with a beard.

 

Mikleo had to swallow before he could speak; he hoped it wasn't too obvious.

 

“I need to see the Shepherd.”

 

The man blinked, then looked across the table. “Did you initiate him?”

 

A shrouded person folded its hands, and after a moment, a woman's voice issued from its hood. “Ho ho, the divine darkness always calls those who are listening.”

 

The man sniffed. “Is he one of your hirelings, Eguille?”

 

An avuncular man with leaned around the table to see Mikleo better. “I admit I don't recognize him, but he might be. Who are you, dear?”

 

Mikleo stepped further into the room. There was another door at the far end.

 

“That's not important.” he would've felt less nervous if they'd all flung themselves at him and tried to kill him. “I just need to find the Shepherd.”

 

Eguille chuckled. “Well, you can try. As far as we know, he's here.”

 

A squat man with a horned helmet swore. “I haven't seen him for more than two months.”

 

“Oh, faint-hearted,” rasped the hooded woman. “If you would only open your mind to my bountiful lord, he would always be before you.”

 

“As you say, Felice,” the man said dryly. Then, to Mikleo: “You're from the outside, aren't you? I'd tell you to head back, but... I don't happen to know the way myself.”

 

Eguille stepped toward Mikleo, carrying a candlestick. “If you're hell-bent on finding him, you'll need this.”

 

He gave him a cheerful smile before returning to the table. The fifth member rolled his eyes and laughed.

 

Thanking him didn't seem entirely appropriate. The five at the table watched Mikleo, and he watched them as he made his way to the door, never entirely putting his back to them. He would've liked to know what they were doing here, but his heart was thudding too hard for him to speak evenly. He opened the door and closed it softly behind him, already looking ahead for a trap.

 

Candlelight flickered on wooden walls, a painting of a unicorn in a cage. Already Mikleo could hear the five talking again.

 

“Something strange about him.”

 

“I've seen that blade and circlet before, somewhere. In a book, I think.”

 

“I wonder if he'll find him.”

 

“Maybe he's dead.”

 

“Ho ho, my lord will not let you malign his name.”

 

The candle wobbled in its base as Mikleo walked, but he had his sword out, so no hand was free to steady it. Many of the rooms he passed proved to be locked. One door yielded, and he stepped into a large ballroom, draped with cobwebs. The skeleton of an animal he didn't recognize lay heaped across a long banquet table. About fifty skulls had been rolled against the wall. He crossed the floor, its design obscured by dirt, and exited by a door on the far side. He didn't care about getting lost. He was here. He would find the Shepherd eventually.

 

He didn't find another window until the candle had burned down. He was starving by then, felt almost feverish from hunger and his taut nerves. He discarded the waxy candle-holder and dug around in his damp pack. His food was still edible, but no longer delicious. As he swallowed, he saw a gray patch in the dark hallway, exuding a pale haze - a window.

 

Careful not to touch the sill, he studied his surroundings. This window also seemed to face west. The sky was a very dark gray over a bright smear on the horizon - sunset. He was much higher than he'd been before, but by no means at the top of the castle. He'd kept telling himself the interminable length of walking was only in his mind, so he was surprised to see a day had almost entirely passed.

 

Those knights... _Child, we're fighting a god,_ Ardis had said. _We're looking for luck._

 

Luck. Mikleo tightened his grip on the blade, then used his free hand to touch his circlet. Maybe it would've been nice to rely on something that simple.

 

The next door he found opened easily. The room was semi-lit by two - _two_ \- enormous windows in the far wall, but all Mikleo could make out was the shapes of furniture. There was also a vast expanse of empty floor. He went in, moving to the window.

 

“'Sup?” said a voice at the far end of the room.

 

Mikleo pivoted, squinting through the darkness. He thought he saw flashing, floating things - then he squinted harder. A figure sat in a chair in front of an unlit hearth, surrounded by clutter, his ankles crossed on a footstool. He appeared to be a young man with unnaturally pale skin and brown hair. The floating - whatever they were - hung on either side of him.

 

Just how many people lived in this castle?

 

“I'm looking for the Shepherd.”

 

“Mm, really?” the voice came, rather lazily. “He's already bought cookies this year. And if you want his opinions for the local papers, everything's shit.”

 

Mikleo decided to disregard the tone. “No, I just need to find him.”

 

“Oh, another obsessed stalker. Okay.” The youth swung to his feet. “If you're here for revenge, he doesn't give a shit; if you're here to replace him, he'll be happy to evaluate you; if you're here to sell your soul, it better taste good; if you're here to lick his boots, they're shiny already. And no, Slaughterfest 200 isn't going to stop anytime soon, it's in it's three hundreth season, so why should it? No, he's not going to spare your puppy; no, he's not going to father your love baby; and no, there's nothing you can do to get on his good side. Does that cover it?”

 

He'd stepped into the light by then. The shinning things were decorations on a pair of metal gauntlets suspended on either side of his upper arms. Upper part of his left face was scalled like a dragon's scales. He barely looked older than Mikleo himself.

 

Mikleo resisted the urge to step back. The gauntlets disquieted him. “I'm here to kill him.”

 

“Oh yeah, I forgot that one.” The man smiled. It was a charming smile, and that didn't make things better. “No, you won't be able to kill him. Are we good now?”

 

“It doesn't matter.” Mikleo kept his voice steady. “I need to see Sorey.”

 

The man's smile flickered. He stared at Mikleo a moment, his dark green eyes narrowed. He extended his left arm to the side. Almost faster than Mikleo could follow, the gauntlets had shifted, rearranging themselves over his arm, forming a long flamming sword. A giant sword.

 

“Tch, you human get worse every time. You're even spelling my name wrong now.”

 

Mikleo stepped back. “You're-”

 

He cocked his head. “You going to finish that? Or is this going to be one of those 'You're - you're - you're-' stuttering things, because those piss me off worse than anything. Now then-” He bent his left arm, raising the sword. “First things first. The name's Slay. Hear it? One syllable, no o.”

 

“But-”

 

“And now you're starting with the 'but's. I'll make things easy for you.” He adopted a falsetto. There he was, facing the Shepherd, and the man was speaking in a falsetto. “'But you _can't_ be the Shepherd, you're not wearing any black armor, you're not waiting in the throne room, you don't have a magic ring, there's no way the Lord of Calamity is not covered in snakes, where are the vampire girls?' That's what you were going to say, right?”

 

“You aren't Sorey?” Mikleo demanded.

 

Again, his face lost its complacency. “Argh, did you not hear me the first time? It's Slay. S-L-A-Y. Now, hold still.” He drew his sword back.

 

Mikleo skittered out of striking range, hearing the man laugh. “But she said-”

 

“Aw, who lied to the widdle baby? Did someone tell you I was nice?”

 

Mikleo gritted his teeth. “Never mind.” he lifted his blade in both hands -

 

\- just as the giant sword cut him in two.

 

Heat, more heat than pain, blazed through him. He felt himself topple, then an intense thrumming in his chest, over his heart. Light exploded in his eyes - then the world stabilized itself. He reaffirmed his grip on the blade and pushed off the floor, feeling the muscles in his stomach work perfectly.

 

The Shepherd stared at Mikleo's unharmed midsection, then up at his face. “That wasn't the same old, same old.”

 

Mikleo thought about saying something about how he'd make it painless if the man surrendered, but then he decided he'd better not give himself any time to lose his nerve. So, he just threw himself at him.

 

Giant sword parried blade neatly. He fell back, gave ground, then lunged sideways into a run, shooting energy from his blade. The man laughed, dodging, his sword detaching from his arm. Mikleo was running too fast to follow the movements precisely, but he thought he saw the giant sword turned into gauntlets fly to the man's back. He gained the darkness at the far end of the room, looking for his opponent. At the last moment, he saw a different sword, longer but slimmer with greenish hue, swing down at him from above. He felt wind. Mikleo ran. A hand caught the back of his clothes and flung him into the air. His vision whirled like a kaleidoscope. There was a flash of black and purple, an explosion of heat, then he and the Shepherd were face to face. He hung suspended in the air, his blade useless in his grip, his blood spilling down, his forehead touching the Shepherd's forehead, and the sharp haft of the sword, which strangely emitted wind, punched entirely through Mikleo's chest.

 

Slay smiled, kneed Mikleo in the stomach, and sent him sliding off the haft, leaving it glistening. He didn't feel himself hit the floor, only the wild thrumming in his breastbone, his heart.

 

After a moment, Mikleo picked himself up, wiping the blood away off his blade hilt. He took a deep breath, one hand to his chest, which was unscarred.

 

“All right.”

 

“Friggin' hell, what are you?” The mockery was gone. Slay swept down, lifted Mikleo by his neck, and smashed his face against the stone wall, once, twice. Mikleo felt the blood, the needles of bone pierce his face, the man's nails digging into his throat. He felt little pain. There was a swooping sensation, then a blast of cold air. Ah. He'd thrown him out the window.

 

He landed on the stone road four stories below, unable to move at first. When the thrumming in his chest had stopped, he moved his limbs and crawled out of sight, trailing blood behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

“ _What is it? What's wrong?”_

 

“ _I - there was a - a-”_

 

“ _Was it a bad dream?”_

 

“ _It just...that dragon you showed me.”_

 

“ _Ah, don't worry. The images from dream can't hurt you, dear heart.”_

 

“ _But it - its teeth...I dreamed it was eating me and eating me and...I didn't die.”_

 

“ _Go back to sleep, little one. No dragons will hurt you.”_

* * *

 

 

Mikleo's hands were still shaking. He walked an aimless path through Dame du lac's streets, not minding the nighttime darkness, not caring about anyone who saw him, his body intact but slick with blood. He took great gasps of air, reassuring himself he _could_ breathe. He touched his heart, his neck, just to feel his pulse.

 

His heart, was beating.

 

There were small campfires all around him, but he barely noticed them until he almost walked into one. After a moment, he realized someone had been speaking -

 

“Thought you knew well enough to stay away when you had the chance, kid.”

 

He blinked - even his eyelashes felt heavy with moisture - the play of firelight shifting into the form of a red caped man with lion mask. He stood not far from Mikleo, his sword on his waist. Behind, the other man knelt, his back to Mikleo. He could hear something tearing.

 

“I'm...sorry,” Mikleo said, trying to reassemble his disjointed thoughts.

 

“I thought you were going to find the Shepherd. It looks like you ran into one of the gangs instead.” He turned. “Away with you.”

 

Mikleo wiped his hand across his face, but since his hand was bloody, it didn't gain him much.

 

“I _did_ meet the Shepherd.”

 

The cape snapped softly as Heldalf turned again. “Don't take me for an idiot. If you had met him, you would have not returned.”

 

Mikleo sighed; somehow it made him feel better. No less tired though.

 

“He did kill me.” He wiped his cheek against the shoulder of his clothes. “Three times.” he noticed his hands still shook, so he crossed his arms.

 

Then he noticed Heldalf was studying him.

 

“You're a human, are you not?”

 

“Um...” Mikleo looked down at himself, as if expecting to find some clue he'd never noticed in twenty years. He should be. She said he was human. Mikleo met the man's eyes through the lion mask. “Shouldn't I be?”

 

“Then why are your eyes the color of malevolence?”

 

Mikleo didn't want to, but he looked away first.

 

“At first I thought I was mistaken, but you spoke the old language when we met.” He stepped just a bit closer. “the ancient Seraphim's language. Who did you say you were?”

 

Mikleo forced himself to return his gaze. “My name's Mikleo.” He hesitated, just a moment.

 

Mikleo thought he saw Michael's shoulders tense at his name, but it was Heldalf who finally spoke.

 

“Mikleo of what?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

His upper lip lifted slightly, his thin fingers curling more closely around his sword. Behind him, Michael, had risen. At his feet lay a body, covered in shadow. Mikleo could almost hear Heldalf decide to change tact.

 

“Why did you want to meet the Shepherd?”

 

“To kill him.” he tried for a casual shrug, didn't quite make it. “It doesn't seem that unusual.”

 

“Indeed,” he said dryly. “And how is it you're alive?”

 

“Why do you need to know?” Mikleo countered, wondering if he'd ever get used to arguing with people.

 

Heldalf considered him a moment. “What do you think, Michael?”

 

The white robed man chuckled lightly, but not pleasantly. “None of us here are strangers to powerful artes.”

 

A bit of a silence followed that one.

 

“If you managed to escape from the Lord of Calamity unscathed-” Heldalf's head tilted as he took in Mikleo's bloodstains “-you have nothing to fear from us.”

 

Mikleo stepped closer to the fire, keeping his eyes averted from the corpse. He didn't want to guess what Michael had been doing. Robbing it. Probably. The heat from the fire, even after the battle, was welcome, though he kept his eyes on the others.

 

“What are you doing here? You were headed north.”

 

“We've been north,” Heldalf answered. Michael turned, kicking the body out of sight before sitting on a slab of rock, his arms crossed and his head bowed. His sword lay at rest beside him. Heldalf continued, “If you survived an encounter with the Shepherd, why aren't you still fighting him? Did you have an amicable cease-fire?”

 

“He threw me out the window.” Mikleo tried a small smile, but it wasn't returned. “And... it’s tiring. But I'll be back.” he took a deep breath.

_I need to. I just need to try again._

 

_I couldn't touch him. He didn't destroy me, but I was useless._

 

A long silence lapsed before Heldalf spoke again. “The desire to kill the Lord of Calamity is, as you said, not unusual.” He wished the man'd draw closer to the fire, so Mikleo could see him better. Or remove the mask. “And?”

 

Heldalf glanced at Michael. “You may rest yourself at our fire for the night. I wish to speak with you in the morning.”

 

Mikleo stepped away from the fire. “I'm sorry, but-”

 

“Of course, you don't trust us. But I'm surprised that a child who walked into Dame du lac castle and came out again is so flighty.”

 

Mikleo shifted his weight. “Do you think we can help each other, or something?”

 

Heldalf seated himself by the fire, laying his sword down. “We will talk about it in the morning.”

 

Mikleo hesitated, glancing to see where the body had landed. He looked out into the darkness of Dame du lac, then up at the castle, at the god he hadn't defeated.

 

Slowly, he sat on the other side of the fire.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

He didn't sleep. Even when he dozed, part of his attention remained on the two men. After an hour, Michael rose and stalked into the darkness, not returning almost until dawn. Mikleo watched him crouch down and touch a cobblestone, murmuring.

 

“Not long now.”

 

Heldalf stirred. Perhaps he had felt comfortable enough to sleep. Though he couldn't see his face, he could see that he wasn't surprised Mikleo was still there.

 

Mikleo blinked, his eyelashes now stiff. Even his scalp was itching from the dried blood. Even if he'd been feeling better, he didn't want to waste time on preliminaries.

 

“So?”

 

Heldalf straightened, squaring his shoulders, not as if he had spent the night crouched on a paving stone. “Is my family name, the Heldalf, familiar to you?”

 

“No. Well, it is now, but...”

 

“You come from...” There was a delicate, deliberate pause. “...far away?”

 

“A bit.”

 

“The first of the Heldalf family served the Rolance's royal family as high general.” Mikleo still wasn't familiar with the name, but he noted the reverence with which Heldalf said it. “Until the first of my line was butchered by the Lord of Calamity.” He lifted his chin, regarding the castle a moment. “On those ramparts, my ancestor, the first Heldalf who lost his son, swore unresting vengeance upon him and promised to restore the world.”

 

Mikleo fingered one blood-stiff strand of hair, grimacing. “Why haven't you?” Then he mentally slapped himself on the forehead.

 

However, Heldalf didn't leap across the ash-pile and throttle Mikleo. But his voice was killingly cool. “My ancestors have not been so fortunate as you.”

 

Mikleo nodded, hoping it looked sympathetic. He glanced at Michael.

 

Heldalf didn't make him ask it. “From my ancestor, I have also inherited the duty of accompanying Michael.” Michael raised his head, but didn't meet the red caped man's eyes, looking off into the distance. “Michael has no lost love for the god of war.”

 

Michael hmphed.

 

“I see,” Mikleo said, hoping he actually did. “So you think we'd all stand a better chance if we worked together?”

 

Heldalf swept to his feet, towering over Mikleo. “The Heldalf family does not often seek help from outsiders. However,...” As he looked down, Mikleo saw the color of his eyes through the mask for the first time; they were dark green. “I cannot let such a chance slip by.”

 

“Do I have to make my decision now?”

 

“You would do well to.”

 

“All right.” Mikleo also stood. “For now, we - what's that?” Following his example, Heldalf also looked up.

 

Stark against the white sky, a small black shape had just hurtled from one of the castle's towers, shooting northwest across the clouds.

 

“Speak of the Devil,” Heldalf said, not unexpectedly.

 

Michael had also risen. “He's headed in the direction of Lasstonbell.”

 

“Interesting. He hasn't been seen for quite a while.”

 

“Damn,” said Mikleo. “I walked all the way down here, and he's gone in a second?”

 

“No fear,” Heldalf said smoothly, lifting his sword. There was slash of light, then a round crystal hovered between them. It was deep red.

 

“That's a-”

 

“A Memory crystal, yes. I was waiting on using it, but with you here, I think the time is ripe.” Then he shifted to the Seraphim language. _“Hear me, unhallowed soul, bend yourself to my will.”_

 

Mikleo bit his lip as the world swirled, then seemed to fold around them, then was filled with the blinding light of the Crystal. The Crystal shattered. He nearly toppled to the ground, which wasn't cobblestone but sparse grassland. A cool wind beat his face. He blinked. The three of them stood at the crest of a hill. To the south, he could see the walls and the rooftops of a city. And between him and the city stood a creature, massive, glittering and dark.

 

“The fire dragon,” Heldalf said softly. “She doesn't appear to have attacked yet.”

 

“I'd like to stretch these limbs,” Michael said after a moment, eyeing the monster.

 

“I would advise against it, Michael. We will want every reserve of strength for the Lord of Calamity himself.”

 

Mikleo scanned the city walls. There was no sign of sentries. Nor, for that matter, could he hear anything except distant birdsong. _The people must all be hiding._

“Why is this city still here? In two hundred years, he hasn't gotten around to destroying it?”

 

“It's been destroyed twice,” Heldalf replied, “once in 612, again in 723. Each time, the king has sold himself to the Shepherd to stop the carnage. It's the last surviving city. It's dwindled almost to nothing, but its tribute is still considerable. The Lord of Calamity obviously feels a need to renew the contract. Dame du lac,” he added, an ugly note catching his voice, “never settled for such terms.”

 

“So, what's the plan? Do we just wait here until he shows, or-”

 

Michael's sword, hovering behind him, crackled with energy. A dark figure had descended from the clouds, dropping to rest on top of the dragon's head. They watched it a moment in silence, but it made no move.

 

“Our plan is to draw him and his slave away from the city,” Heldalf replied. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth. “What I wouldn't give for a contingent of soldiers. My family's prosperity has indeed sunk low. Nevertheless.” Sighing, he opened his eyes and lifted his sword, shifting language. “ _Forgotten souls, lost children of the world, call the psychpomp-_ ”

 

“Psychpomp?” Mikleo interrupted.

 

Heldalf bristled. “A guide of souls.” And so on - “ _call the-_ ”

 

A giant sword cut through the air, blocked only by Michael's whirring, sword.

 

“You're really struggling to find things to call me by now,” the Lord of Calamity commented. He half-leaned back in the air above them, ankles crossed. “Psychpomp? 'Butcher', 'Tyrant' and 'Guy Who Generally Shits All Over Your Hopes and Dreams' not refined enough? Let's have a little lesson in spirituality. I'm not here to purify the tainted souls. I'm not even here to winnow the bad souls from the obsessively evil. I'm just here to kill you. So creative titles aren't necessary, but if you want to beg for mercy, please make it original.”

 

Heldalf drove the tip of his sword into the ground; Mikleo felt the grassland vibrate. “Do you know who I am, Lord of Calamity?”

 

The giant sword swung up and behind. Slay hooked his elbows behind it's handle, leaning further back, apparently supported only by that and his gauntlets-turned-fanned-swords.

 

“Let's see, lion mask, terrible people skills and all-around air of being more intelligent than wise...you must be one of those Heldalf. Damn, how do any of you live long enough to reproduce? And with you is the customary family bed-warmer, Lord Zombie or whatever his name is. And-” He straightened, his voice losing some of its complacency. “And it's my little human cockroach, come back for more fun. You really don't know how to pick your friends. I've been killing this whiny ass bitch for two centuries.”

 

“You have never defeated me before,” Heldalf said, knuckles tightening on the sword. “And this will be your last fight.”

 

The giant sword swept into Slay's hand. “I'd tell you not to quit your day job, but I doubt you can get one.”

 

“Enough of this,” Michael growled. “I remember far more than you, slime.”

 

With a roar, he took up his sword, casting fire onto its blade, then sending it high into the air. Mikleo drew his own weapon but held back, watching the two duel. Heldalf raised his sword, swinging an arc of fire. The best Mikleo could do at this distance was shoot energy from his blade. He felt rather useless, but he angled his blade up anyway.

 

It was next to impossible to aim. The Lord of Calamity and the swords whirled around each other, refusing to land and give them a fair shot at him. Darkness exploded from Heldalf's sword, making the air shake, making it momentarily too dark to see. Mikleo heard a groan - it might have been Slay - but an even louder cry that could only be Heldalf.

 

“Michael- we must-”

 

As the darkness finally bubbled away, Mikleo saw Michael grab the heavily-bleeding Heldalf's arm, and the two of them suddenly vanished.

 

Mikleo stared at the place they'd stood, then up at the Lord of Calamity, who wasn't even bruised.

 

“I think you were right about my taste in friends.”

 

Slay leaned back against his fanned-out swords' again. “Now that we're alone-”

 

Mikleo shifted his weight, defensively tilting his blade up in front of him. “How do you know I'm not going to attack you? I still have my blade.”

 

“Yeah, but our last fight proved you lack the skills necessary to fly. So you can shoot light at me all day if you want, but it won't do you any good.”

 

“So get down here and fight me.”

 

He stretched his right arm, rotating his shoulder. “That tends to be my M.O...but I'm not so sure about it now. I'll kill you, and then you'll pop back up again, and then I'll kill you again, then you'll pop up... You're sort of like the neverending perfect toy. But then I think, no, I always get tired of toys, and if I can't get rid of you when that happens, you'll be more trouble than your worth. So I can't destroy your body. What about your soul?” He smiled “Is that up for grabs?”

 

Before Mikleo could begin to be ready for it, he felt a terrible wind rushing through him body, threatening to pull his inside out. His brain turned over, his entire bone vibrated, something-

 

-something vile tried to fill him up and the next thing he knew, he was lying in the dry grass, his fingers still desperately hooked around the blade. Slay, however, was coughing violently.

 

“Okay, it looks like tainting you or even eating your soul's out of the question.” He looked down at Mikleo. “What the hell are you holding on to? This world isn't _that_ great. Trust me, you'll be happy to be gone.”

 

Mikleo struggled back to his feet, small petals of dried blood fluttering down from him.

 

“Seriously, what's your game?”

 

“I'm just here to kill the Shepherd.” Mikleo leaned against his blade to steady himself. “That's all.”

 

“Are you as dumb as you sound? Why. The hell. Won't. You. Die?”

 

An unhappy laugh shook its way out of Mikleo. “Why would I tell you?”

 

There was a long silence after that. Then he shrugged.

 

“Whatever. As long as it works, that's all I'm interested in.” Then he swooped down. Mikleo thrashed wildly with his blade -

 

\- and missed, apparently, because the next thing he knew, his chest had stopped thrumming and he was face-down on the ground, blood trickling out of his nose. Slay's voice came from above.

 

“There's no way a mortal could cast that sort of magic.”

 

As he lifted himself, he felt something cold touch his throat. He leaned back, fast. Slay was standing over him, hooking one of his sword around Mikleo's neck like a shepherd's crook. He tapped Mikleo head back, forcing him to look up at him.

 

“You from Elysia? Have she finally thrown her ass into the ring?”

 

Mikleo didn't answer.

 

“Hm,” Slay said thoughtfully, as though Mikleo had given him a full explanation, then jerked his arm back and decapitated Mikleo.

 

When Mikleo came to, he was back in the grass, his hand instinctively going to his throat. It felt smooth; no abrasions even. Slay was hovering again, eyeing him curiously.

 

“That is so cool and so very disturbing. Do you know what your head did? It rolled back towards your body and-”

 

Mikleo closed his eyes, not listening to the rest, tears of frustration stabbing his eyelids. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't get near enough to fight the Shepherd, let alone kill him. He took a deep breath, forcing the tears back, body trembling with strain. He struggled to sit up.

 

Unconsciousness came as a relief.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Are you ever lonely?”_

 

“ _What do you mean? You're here.”_

 

“ _...Yes, but I'm not exactly like you. Are you ever lonely for someone like yourself?”_

 

“ _You're always saying I'm different from everyone.”_

 

* * *

 

 

When Mikleo woke up, he had no clue where he was. He didn't remember if he'd been killed again - he didn't think he had. So he'd fainted? He felt tired, that much was certain, his muscles aching. A thin cloth was under him. A blanket? He tried to drag his eyelids open, but they were oppressively heavy from exhaustion. He tried again and succeeded, the world blurry at first.

 

He met a pair of round blue eyes. “Ah!” a voice squealed, too young for Mikleo to guess whether it was male or female, then the face swooped out of his line of vision and he heard the sound of clacking footsteps, going away.

 

He moved his eyes, not his head. A low canvas drooped over him, held up by four sticks. There were haversacks heaped around him. His blade lay next to him, his empty scabbard beside it.

 

Vibrations from heavier footsteps this time. A tall, slim shape entered the tent, knelt next to her, set a basin to one side, and a woman's voice said, “All right there?”

 

“Um...” Mikleo struggled to make his limbs work, trying to lift himself onto one elbow. The woman gently pressed his back down, so Mikleo rolled ungracefully onto his back, the best way to face his helper. She was middle-aged, her skin dry with sharp, thin folds around her blue eyes. After a moment, Mikleo realized she wore small mask which was set aside on her long red hair.

 

“Don't worry,” she said, business-like. “You're a bit of a mess, but you aren't hurt. My name's Sindra.”

 

“Thanks.” Even speaking was hard at the moment. “I'm Mikleo.”

 

Sindra bent to the side, picking up a cloth.

 

“Would you like me to get your face for you?”

 

Mikleo grimaced, not liking to be taken care of, but nodded. Sindra dampened the cloth in the basin, then set to dabbing Mikleo's face.

 

“Why are you so bloody?” She frowned. “Was it the dragon? Did something happen?”

 

Mikleo didn't answer, and Sindra didn't press it. At least, not directly.

 

“You gave my kids a scare. Serves them right, of course, they aren't allowed so close to the city. They thought you were dead when they first saw you.” She smiled faintly. “My daughter carried you here on her back. It was very impressive.”

 

“How long... What time is it?”

 

“Evening. Are you hungry?”

 

“Maybe in a bit.” His voice was coming stronger now.

 

“Mom, does Margaret have the - Oh, he's up! Hey there, how are you feeling?” A slightly smaller shape crowded around Sindra, a girl about Mikleo's age with short red hair. “Damn, I'm glad you aren't dead. You were heavy.”

 

“Sorry. Thanks.” Now with two people looking concernedly down at him, Mikleo struggled to sit up. Sindra handed him the cloth, and he began scrubbing at his arms and hands.

 

The girl crouched down. “Did you attack the dragon or something?” She looked rather hopeful.

 

“Rose,” Sindra warned, though Mikleo noted that both still eyed him curiously.

 

“Um, no. I was...” No, if he said he was attacked, they'd ask why he wasn't wounded. “It's not...something I should talk about.”

 

“Of course not,” Sindra said crisply, giving her daughter another hard look. Rose seemed abashed, her eyebrows angling down. “Do you want to rest some more?”

 

“No.” Mikleo got to his knees too quickly, needing to concentrate so he didn't fall over. “I'm sorry I've given you trouble.”

 

Muscles gradually loosening, he sheathed his blade, restrapping his baldric across his chest.

 

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

 

“You can do my chores,” Rose said brightly.

 

“You're welcome,” Sindra said, “but I'd feel better if you'd take it easy.”

 

Mikleo followed the women out of the tent, which had been pitched in the lee of a grassy hill, facing drier sward. A small red-haired kid - a girl, Mikleo decided - sat feeding sticks to a fire over which a pot hung.

 

“Margaret, keep Mikleo company. Rose, go refill the canteens.”

 

Mikleo lowered himself next to the young girl. Though he sat down by the tent to repair a haversack, Sindra kept the two of them well in sight. For her part, Margaret stared at Mikleo's bloodstains with obvious interest.

 

Mikleo had never, not once, talked to a child. He didn't want to sound too doubtful. “How old are you?”

 

“Five.” She drummed her small feet in front of her. “Can I see your sword?” Mikleo let her examine the long metal hilt, the red patterns on either side. “Rose never lets me touch her knives.”

 

“...Well, they're dangerous. I didn't get this blade until I was fifteen.”

 

Margaret pushed out her lower lip and glared at Mikleo. “I'm not _stupid_.”

 

“Sorry,” Mikleo said, feeling guilty.

 

Margaret lifted her chin. “My family's always been warriors.” She waited, so he nodded. “My great grandmother was Red Rose of Windriders. Rose also inherited her name from Red Rose.”

 

“Um...” he was saying that a lot lately.

 

“She fought off a dragon.” Margaret hunched her shoulders, her hands forming claws. “The wind dragon, he was chasing everyone out of Hyland, and Red Rose fought him off.”

 

“Very good,” Mikleo said, glancing at Sindra, who was looking determinedly down. “Do you live in Lasstonbell now?”

 

“We're on a vacation.” Margaret added another stick to the fire. “Until the fire dragon leaves. My buddies on vacation too.”

 

“A lot of people evacuated?” Mikleo asked Sindra.

 

“While they could,” came the reply. “The gate's been barred now, not that it's going to do any good. Trust the king to make empty gestures.”

 

“Are you planning on going back?”

 

“We'll see.”

 

“All full!” said Rose, skidding down the hill, strapped with full canteens. “I saw the dragon from the stream. I think she's changed position.”

 

“Where?” Sindra's voice was suddenly sharp.

 

“More to the west. Maybe she's going to blast the palace.”

 

“Did you see the Shepherd anywhere?” Mikleo asked.

 

“Hmph!” She put her hands on her hips. “He should be glad I didn't.” She looked pointedly at her mother, who seemed very intent on rethreading her needle. “I wouldn't _run_ from him.”

 

“Would you rather be in the city, dead?” Sindra asked softly.

 

Rose discarded the canteens and flopped onto the grass, the twin knives on each side of her hip jangling.

 

“I just don't like it. If we're in danger, we should stay and fight.” She paused, as if waiting for argument. “That's the problem. The Lord of Calamity comes and everyone runs. Of course he's not gonna stop. We've made it easy for him. If we all just joined together and fought back, we could defeat him. Dad says-”

 

“Rose-” Mikleo could guess by Sindra's voice that this wasn't a new discussion for them “-even Alisha the Knight Queen and all her armies couldn't defeat him.”

 

Rose shrugged. “Alisha the Knight Queen. So what? Maybe she wasn't as all-powerful as the legends say. Maybe we have something she doesn't.”

 

Sindra sighed and shook her head.

 

“Who _is_ Alisha the Knight Queen?” Mikleo asked. “I keep hearing that name, and I'm - not from around here.”

 

Rose's eyes widened with surprise; maybe Mikleo had been forgotten for the moment.

 

“According to all the old stories, she was a super-crazy-powerful queen who have direct connection with the Seraphim. You really don't know this? Well, two hundred years ago, she fought the Lord of Calamity. She hurted him badly but he shellacked her, then hung her body over the castle ramparts, then made a big slit in it and let the blood drain out. Then some of her followers snuck up and rescued it. I dunno where they buried her. Another story says he ate her, soul and body.”

 

 _I believe it,_ thought Mikleo.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Mikleo sneaked out the tent that night, when Sindra, Rose and Margaret were asleep. He couldn't lie still. His constant bursts of energy and fatigue from dying so often seemed to have reset his internal clock. The night was cool, a bit wet, though no rain fell. A large moon cast light over the relatively flat terrain, so he could see well. He headed northwest.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Moonlight slid, rippling over the fire dragon's bulk, its scale flare like hot metal. Mikleo approached the fire dragon, waiting for the crackling of energy to alert him to danger. None came. He found himself able to reach out and touch the snot, the dragon curled like a giant cat. The snot was warm, almost unpleasantly so, and he could feel flutterings against his fingers, as if hundreds of small hearts beat just below the surface. Mikleo tilted his head back, speaking in the Celestial tongue. _“Do you remember Fethus Mioma?”_

 

No answer.

 

“ _Can you hear me, Laila?”_

 

Images broke into his mind, tangled threads of thought - red sky, bodies, burning light, a city on fire, blood stains on alabaster, a sword stuck on pedestal, a cathedral, butterflies. He thought he heard Laila telling him to die quietly, but he couldn't be sure, too much of his mind trying to understand the images.

 

“ _I'm not going to fight you. Tell me what you remember.”_

 

An image glowed in his mind, green glades, fruit trees, flowers, white arches. Then it was subsumed in red, the image of a destroyed world.

 

“ _I know those arches. We both remember Elysia. Muse told me I might have to ask you. You know more about it than she does.”_

 

The scene shifted to a gully loaded with bodies, then Mikleo had another image of blood splattered against alabaster.

 

Alabaster. But whose blood? Mikleo considered asking, then thought of all the circuitous memories that Laila had already shown her. Staying focused would be best.

 

_“Muse told me I have to kill Sorey.”_

 

Heat blazed under the Dragon and Mikleo jerked his fingers back, now touching the Dragon only with his nails.

_“But then she told me he was already dead. She didn't explain anything. So I've come here and Sorey isn't the Shepherd. Instead it's Slay. You were closest to him. Do you know where Sorey is?”_

 

Finally, Mikleo heard words in his mind, the voice of the dragon. _“Tainted...died...reborn...soul cut open and festering...”_

 

Mikleo looked up. Had his question been answered or was Laila lamenting her own fate? He suddenly felt afraid to ask or even to prolong this strange interview.

_“Thank you, Laila.”_ he stepped away, not bothering to ask that Lasstonbell be spared. The fire dragon would probably not remember him in a moment. He wondered if risking the dragon's wrath had even been worth it.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

“So, are you adventuring or something?”

 

Mikleo looked up from the pot of soup he was minding. He and Rose were alone at the camp, Sindra and Margaret having gone off to search for supplies.

 

“I guess.”

 

Rose leaned back and nibbled a blade of grass, then swallowed it.

 

“Lucky. I wish Mom would give us a chance to explore, but she keeps saying we have to stay put. Dad said he'd be back after five days, and he needs to be able to find us.” She sighed and lay back. “Still, she could let _me_ cut loose. I'm old enough.”

 

“Where would you go?” Mikleo stirred the soup, glancing at his arm as he did so.

 

That morning, he and his clothes had both had baths in a nearby river. His clothes were still stiff from the dry blood he hadn't been able to scrub off, but his skin was clean, and that simple fact made him feel remarkably better or maybe it was the water itself that cheered him to some degree.

 

Rose shrugged. “Anywhere, I guess.” She picked up another blade of grass, then threw it to the side. “You know, Mom and I have been really nice to you.”

 

Mikleo glanced up sharply, but Rose's tone wasn't hostile. “And we haven't asked what the hell you're doing out here, or why you aren't injured. But when Pop comes, he's going to grill you to into little bacon curls. Just warning you. If you want, you could tell me, and I could tell Mom, and she could tell Dad, and you wouldn't have to go through with it.”

 

Mikleo smiled - he hoped it was some kind of joke - and said, “Actually, I probably won't be hanging on much longer. I have things I need to do.”

 

“Oh.” Rose seemed deflated. “So you'll be heading off? Okay. Listen, I'm going to stretch my legs for a bit, so - actually no, I should stay here. Um, why don't you take a walk or something?”

 

Mikleo didn't understand the sudden mood shift, but he understood that Rose wanted to be alone. Also that the family didn't want to leave a stranger alone with their few possessions.

 

“Sure.” he rose, slung his blade across his back, and started off to the south.

 

He wondered how long Rose would need. Mikleo glanced back. Had the girl wanted to come with him? They didn't even know each other. Did she just want someone new to travel with?

 

After ten minutes or so, Mikleo finally saw flowers in this world. There was a clump of small wildflowers, watery blue in color. He bent down to look at them more closely. Just the sight of flowers made him feel miserably homesick.

 

“Nice family, huh?” a male voice said softly from not far off.

 

Mikleo wheeled around on his knees, reaching for his blade.

 

“Ooo, flower child, gettin' down with Mother Earth,” Slay said. “Are you picking out your grave?” The Shepherd, for once, was not flying, his gauntlets on either side of him. The long thin swords were on his back, hovering like a giant fan. But the thick flamming sword was nowhere in sight. There wasn't even three feet between them. Mikleo was afraid to move, wondering if he'd reflexively cut Mikleo down.

 

“You've been watching me?”

 

“Don't pout, a restraining order's not going to do any good. So you've spent a day with the happy little brigade. And you spent last night snuggling up to my dragon. What was _that_ about?”

 

Mikleo couldn't begin to think of an answer.

 

“You keep sounding off about someone named Sorey. And Muse...there's a name I do recognize. That answers some questions.”

 

Mikleo hesitated, sorting out his options. Finally, he spoke. “How did you become the Shepherd?”

 

The shepherd's eyes widened as he stared at him in silence for a moment. Then he laughed.

 

“For someone who's apparently so tight with the Seraphim, you don't know much. I'm not mortals. I'm immortal. Lord of Calamity. I've always been the Shepherd.”

 

“No - you have to be chosen. Muse wouldn't have let-”

 

“What makes you think I'm one Muse's bitch?”

 

Mikleo blinked. “If you don't belong to Elysia. How can you become the Shepherd?”

 

Slay rolled his eyes and swung his arm out. In a moment, the wind sword had formed and swooped down. Mikleo recoiled, lifting one shoulder in a futile attempt to block.

 

But the blow didn't come, only more laughter.

 

“Why the hell did you cringe? Didn't you notice your body keeps healing itself? Damn, for a perfect killing machine, you're easy to mess with.”

 

Mikleo stood, unsheathing his blade. “Not perfect enough.”

 

Slay cocked his head, smiling in mock sympathy. “Aw, don't be bitter just because you suck. Or is this more of an angsty soul-searching hero moment where you're starting to doubt everything you set out to do and you're wondering if the Old Wizard of the Wandering Mind's prophecy led you astray? Or some other shit from a cheap fantasy novel?”

 

Mikleo was tired of dying and coming back again, tired of trying to answer him. When he remained silent, Slay cocked his head the other way, as if trying to get a better look at Mikleo.

 

“You do realize that Muse has set you up? Even if I stood here and let you come at me, I doubt you'd manage to hurt me. I'm a god, and you're a little kid with too much belts on. So you poke me with your toothpick while I get to bloodlet you whenever I feel like it. Are you atoning for some horrendous sin in your past life or something?”

 

“You'd know better than me.”

 

He shrugged. “Out of curiosity, _why_ do you want to kill me? Aside from the obvious, of course.”

 

“I don't. Or...not exactly.” Mikleo lifted his eyes. “I'm here to kill Sorey.”

 

Slay stared at her a moment. “I guess it's official. Muse has totally screwed you over.”

 

“Look, she wouldn't lie to me. He's got to be out here somewhere, and - she told me he was the Shepherd.”

 

Slay cleared his throat. “For the repetition of anyone who's hard of hearing, it's _official_ , Muse has screwed you over and shat on your face. I'm the only Shepherd these days.”

 

Mikleo turned away, pressing his lips together, fighting a savage urge to run him through with his blade. _It won't do you any good,_ he told himself. _Wait a minute, what else am I supposed to do? I'm here to kill the Shepherd, wherever or whoever he is._

 

“Anyway,” Slay continued, more conversationally, “it's a nice little family, isn't it?”

 

Slowly Mikleo turned back to him.

 

Slay really had a lovely smile, and it was really quite awful. “Did I mention I think you're the perfect killing machine?”

 

Mikleo glanced to either side, not certain what he was getting at but already sure there was nowhere to run.

 

* * *

 

“ _What's that?”_

 

“ _It's a Memory Crystal, a powerful soul also bound to the living realm. In human realm, they're considered cursed, but I think we'll find this one useful.”_

 

“ _I'm not sure I like this. If you wanted me used to the idea of not dying, we should've started this a long time ago.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“You mean - you want me to-”

 

“I think you're reading my mind.”

 

“Aren't three dragons enough?”

 

“Please. Wouldn't you get sick of them after two centuries? Laila sulks, Edna is a bizarre sarcasm machine and Dezel has almost as much charm as a cannonball to the face. I have three monstrous city-shattering, soul-munching lizard, but I've never had a minion with Auto-Revive.”

 

The blade angled up. “I'm not going to be your puppet.”

 

“So uncooperative. Maybe I'll talk to your little red haired friends. I bet a few of their screams will convince you.”

 

Mikleo bared his teeth a moment; falling back on something as simple and primal as that seemed like the only thing he could do, but he tried to pull himself together.

 

“Listen, just fight me here, you don't need to take hostages.”

 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? Are you that stupid? Or do you just like hearing my dulcet tones? I'm not threatening hostages because I want to fight you. Hell-” he threw his arms out expansively “-I don't have to take hostages at all. It's up to you.”

 

“They're innocent.” Mikleo swallowed. “I won't let you hurt them.”

 

“Great.” He crossed his arms. “Though I prefer having my lackeys beg for mercy first.”

 

“What - I - No!”

 

“No?” he repeated, leaning forward. “So...nix the 'They're innocent, I won't let you hurt them' stuff?”

 

Mikleo's mouth worked soundlessly. _Muse - why didn't you prepare for something like this?_

 

“Okay.” He rubbed his hands together. “So you're, like, freakishly dedicated, trained in the use of lethal weapons and impossible to kill.”

 

“I-”

 

He looked in the direction of Lasstonbell. “Maybe I'll set up a competition. Who can kill more hysterical nobodies, you or Laila? Is a five-minute time limit good for you?”

 

Mikleo closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he was latently surprised Slay hadn't used that opportunity to attack him.

 

Slay met his glare with another smile. “I see, you're good for three minutes.”

 

“I'm here to kill the Shepherd.” Mikleo spoke slowly and evenly, wondering if he sounded impressive or moronic. “You just said you're the only Shepherd. So I'm not going to run around butchering people for you.”

 

“All right, if you don't mind Mommy and Sissy and Widdle Baby dying because of you.”

 

Mikleo took a deep breath, but his voice shook slightly. “I can't stop you from killing them. It's your choice, not mine.”

 

“Damn, kid, you're cold. You really gonna let me turn The Baby inside out?”

 

No pretense of firmness now; his voice was trembling, almost as much as his blade hand. “I can't stop you from doing anything you want to do. I can't even kill you!”

 

“And you're going to be a heartless bitch about it? Just because some hag sent you down here to kill me? One goal, no options. And you just knuckled under, didn't you? And you're going to do what Muse says, even if it means a baby's blood is shed.” He laughed. “Real noble. They don't make heroes like they used to.”

 

Mikleo bit his lip, afraid it would tremble too. He hadn't cried for years, and he couldn't - couldn't now. But - he thought of Margaret, her wide blue eyes, the naive way she'd asked to hold his blade. In a world ruled by the malevolance, she still didn't know what death was, and Mikleo - he was just going to forget them and try - and fail - and fail again - to kill Slay?

 

“If you're really interesting in playing the hero,” he said, “you should look out for the people who've helped you.”

 

Mikleo sucked in his breath, staring down at the grass. Then he lifted his head. “You'll spare them if I obey you? And then you'll go tell me to murder hundreds of people in Lasstonbell? There are babies there too, you know.”

 

Slay dwelt on whatever disappointment he felt just long enough to grimace, then he raised his sword again. Mikleo blocked once, twice, trying to transform his frustration and fear into physical strength. He concentrated on the wind swords, knowing it was moving too slowly; he was being lazy. Clenching his teeth, Mikleo tried to roll his blade under one of the sword, hoping for the chance to stab at his chest or stomach. Smiling, Slay rolled his weapon right back over the blade, catching its length in the sword hand guard's curve. In a moment, the blade's hilt smacked out of Mikleo's hands as Slay hooked the sword around, the entire blade thrown over Slay's right shoulder. It landed behind him, half-hidden in the grass.

 

Mikleo fell back a step, his useless hands coming up to his chest, half expecting to feel the thrumming sensation in his heart and the warmness of his circlet already. He closed his eyes. He'd come back of course, no matter what he did. That didn't mean he wanted to see his blood. Again.

 

Something wrenched on Mikleo's hair, sending small lightning bolts of pain through his scalp, then something kicked across the back of his knees. He fell, his thighs hitting something, then he was rushing upwards, wind washing across his face. His eyes jerked open, and his arms flailed reflexively out, but there was nothing to grab.

 

Slay abruptly halted their ascent, which almost made Mikleo topple again. He still held Mikleo's hair in one hand; he was sitting on Slay's right thigh and the weapon had changed shape and flared out behind him as sword wings, spewing out wind from each of its blades.

 

“Don't puke on me. Now, see that?”

 

Mikleo would've liked to steady himself, but as Slay was the only thing to hold on to, Mikleo clamped his hands on his own elbows. Slay jerked Mikleo's head around until he faced Lasstonbell.

 

“Home to several thousand maggots. In all of the land, this is the only real city left. It sucks the rest of the continent like a sponge. This is the only place you're going to find real money. The slave and whore markets are some of their biggest cash cows, and the king would sell every child in the city to insure his safety.”

 

He laughed, working his fingers down to clench the back of Mikleo's neck. Mikleo stiffened; it hurt, but he was also ticklish there. He couldn't believe he was thinking about that.

 

“You think this shit-heap is worth saving?”

 

Mikleo tried to ignore him, tried. _Should I strangle him? We're close enough. Like I could._

 

Slay waited another moment, then sighed - Mikleo felt Slay's breath hit his cheek, and it was oddly startling, because why should Lord of Calamity breathe? Then he returned his hand to the back of Mikleo's head and dropped his leg out from under him. The last thing Mikleo felt was a fiery skewer of pain as his neck broke.

 

Then he felt the rush of wind and realized he'd come back and Slay must have just let go of him.

 

Then he felt the impact.

 

Then he felt damp grass under him and someone shaking his shoulders. He rolled over, blinking, bringing one arm up to guard himself. The wind was cold on his wet face - blood-wet, again. His neck wasn't even stiff. How long had he been out?

 

“Are you-” the voice, female, was hushed, almost horrified. “You're - what the hell - You really _are_ alive!”

 

Mikleo's eyes focused, and he saw Rose leaning over him. “I heard that guy say you couldn't die, but - and then he took you up - and then he disappeared - and then you _fell_ \- I was gonna try to catch you, but seeing it drove everything outta my head-”

 

Mikleo struggled to his feet, searching for his blade. He ran to get it, then ran past Rose.

 

“Hey, where are you-” Rose had caught up quickly.

 

Mikleo couldn't bring himself even to glance over. “Your family-”

 

Rose lowered her head and quickly outpaced Mikleo, dust and grass flying behind her. They sped towards the camp. They were almost there. He tried to call ahead to Rose - not sure why - but the girl was hurtling, unstoppable. Perhaps it was because she was running so fast that she didn't see what Mikleo saw: bright against the dull grass, a small red heart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Why do you want me to kill the Shepherd? Is dying bad?”_

 

“ _Death isn't evil, Mikleo dear.”_

 

“ _But you told me people don't want to die. That they hate it.”_

 

“ _Well, death never claims to fairness or sympathy.”_

 

“ _It's unfair? You said Sorey is a good person.”_

 

“ _He is.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Mikleo was afraid to offer to help burying Sindra and Margaret. For so long Rose hunched over her mother's body, heedless of the blood. She couldn't hold her sister, for Margaret's body had been slashed apart and strewn across the campsite, mangled beyond recognition. Mikleo didn't want to believe that this sort of savagery was possible from a rational being, but he couldn't deny what he saw.

 

“It's not fair.” If Muse were listening, Mikleo wanted her to hear. “Why should I be able to come back?”

 

Rose tensed and looked over her shoulder, tears spilling down her face. Her lids tensed, her eyes bright with anger. Mikleo took a step back, then another, then turned and fled.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

He ran for a long time. He knew he had nowhere to go, that the grassy plains left him bare to the sky, defenseless against any attack. He knew he couldn't run from what he'd seen, or Muse' plan, or Slay's malice. He couldn't run from anything that mattered. But for the longest time, he couldn't imagine himself stopping and struggling to accept it.

 

Eventually, he slid to his knees. The grass was higher, the stalks brushing against his elbows. He crossed his arms over his stomach, bowed his head almost to his knees trying to contain it. What _it_ was, he wasn't sure. Maybe his grief, or shame. Maybe himself.

 

Then he got to his feet. There was no use running. He just had to make himself believe that. He hadn't made Slay kill them. He hadn't. Slay would've killed them even if he had obeyed. There was nothing he could've done.

 

Mikleo looked around and had no idea where he was. He should retrace his path, try to find his way to Lasstonbell, try to stop Slay.

 

_Sorry, Muse._

 

He lay down and tried to rest.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

It was night when he woke. For a moment, Mikleo studied the peaceful beauty of the sky, then the memories flooded back into his brain. He tightened his lips and pushed himself to his feet.

_I have to keep trying_.

 

He swallowed, momentarily afraid he was going to throw up.

_I can't ever let that happen again._

 

_How the hell can I stop him?_

 

Swallowing, he forced himself to take his bearings and turn back towards Lasstonbell. It didn't matter what he found there, he just had to keep going.

 

Was Slay still watching him?

 

He'd been walking less than an hour when he felt the air vibrate. He halted, hand already to his bladehilt, watching a dark patch of night bubble and fold in on itself. There was flicker of red light, then two figures appeared in the grass, distinct in the moonlight.

 

He recognized them, but wasn't ready to lower his blade hand yet.

 

“You're still alive. I suppose that's not a surprise.” Heldalf strode a step forward.

 

“You're alive too,” Mikleo said. He did not add that _that_ was more of a surprise. Michael didn't approach, but he felt his eyes on him.

 

Perhaps Heldalf caught the unspoken afterthought, because he said, “I see you have not managed to kill the Shepherd.”

 

Mikleo tried not to feel anything as he said that, tried not to think that if he had succeeded, Rose's family would still be alive. It didn't work, but at least he didn't cry.

 

“Have you given up?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then perhaps we should plan our next assault more carefully.”

 

Mikleo wondered if Heldalf saw his eyebrows jump up in surprise. They had - there was no other word for it - abandoned him during their battle with Slay, abandoned him to face Slay alone. But, he amended, Heldalf had been badly wounded at the time. And it wasn't as though they had sworn any pact of honor to each other. Of course he would protect himself first.

 

“All right,” Mikleo said, “what do you-”

 

Light flared on the horizon, too bright, too fast for dawn. Red brilliance bloomed through the night, dimming the stars, outshining the moon. Then, in barely a heartbeat, it was gone, their light-blinded eyes making the night momentarily empty.

 

As Mikleo blinked, he heard Michael grunt. “The fire dragon's taken Lasstonbell.”

 

Heldalf sighed, but even that sounded haughty. “There's no use remaining here. The Shepherd won't linger over carrion.”

 

“Where are we going then?” Mikleo asked, trying not to think of those thousands of people dead. He didn't know any of them. For him, it still felt like two people were dead, Sindra and Margaret. “Back to Dame du lac?”

 

“Too far. I don't wish to destroy my remaining Crystal just for travel. We will head southeast, to Marlind.”

 

“Why?”

 

Heldalf gave him a smile; it wasn't half as charming as Slay's but there's an odd resemblance. “There's a dragon there.” He began walking. Mikleo joined him, and Michael followed at a distance.

 

“We're going to attack the dragon and try to lure Slay there?”

 

Heldalf glanced sharply at him. “You are on a first-name basis with the Shepherd?”

 

Mikleo opened his mouth to explain, but it didn't seem worth it.

 

Heldalf continued. “We may attack the earth dragon if it comes to that. Or we may not.”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

By the time they rested midmorning, Mikleo hadn't gotten anything else out of them. Michael didn't rest, merely stood guard as Heldalf sat down, spine straight, and closed his eyes. Mikleo leaned back on his elbows and tried to doze. They didn't offer sharing their rations. If Michael ate, he looked after that himself, and Heldalf only had thin waybread. Mikleo didn't share out his dried fruit.

 

The terrain had grown more hilly, and it wasn't until late afternoon that they saw the dragon, her silhouette vague from distance. She seemed smaller, slimmer than the fire dragon, who'd been tall enough. Below him was a ruined city, most of its structures collapsed.

 

“No one actually lives in Marlind,” Heldalf said, gazing down at the ruins. “The community meets there when necessary. I doubt it's finding many reasons to now.”

 

They did not travel south towards the ruins. Rain clouds had been building overhead, so they turned east into the large forest that had once supported Marlind's industry. The trees grew high and thick, letting few of the fat raindrops through.

 

“Where are we going?” Mikleo asked when Heldalf continued walking further in. “Shouldn't we just camp and wait it out?”

 

“Where do you think the people of Marlind live?” Heldalf called back.

 

Light went fast in the forest. Heldalf cast light onto the tip of his sword, leading them through the twisting, branched darkness. Mikleo thought he had to be mistaken, delusional even, that anyone lived in here, until he smelled smoke. Then - yes - stew. A cookfire.

 

A small hut nestled against a tree; looking harder, Mikleo thought it might have even been built into the tree's massive trunk. A fire, heaped around with rocks, stood in front, cradling a squat pot. A slight figure sat crossed-legged in front of this, dressed in a trousers and bare chest full of tattoo, his long silvery green hair tied back and a good bit of stubble on his face. He half-turned at their approach, his face betraying nothing.

 

“I suppose even you rustics are familiar with courtesy due to travelers,” Heldalf drawled.

 

The man stood, and though he didn't smile or even pretend to be inviting, his voice was still polite. “I'll add more to the stew.” He stepped inside the hut.

 

“That was pretty rude of you,” Mikleo felt compelled to say.

 

Heldalf didn't seem hurt by the criticism, settling himself down in front of the fire. Michael hung back in the shadows of the trees. Mikleo sat down, neither close to Heldalf nor to where the man had sat.

 

Their host stepped back outside, adding two handfuls of cut potatoes to the stew. He withdrew a long carrot and broke it into several pieces, adding them one by one. Mikleo's stomach rumbled impatiently, and he hoped no one heard it.

 

For a while, no one spoke. The man stood over the pot, stirring it occasionally, until he went inside and fetched two bowls. “I only have these,” he said neutrally, handing a bowl of stew to Heldalf, then Mikleo.

 

“Be off,” Heldalf said. “We'll call you back when we want you.”

 

Mikleo widened his eyes. The man stared at Heldalf a moment, then turned and walked off into the trees.

 

“I'm sorry,” Mikleo called after him. “Thank you.”

 

There were no spoons. That didn't stop the stew from being surprisingly delicious, despite Mikleo's guilt.

 

“You shouldn't have sent him away like that. This is his generosity we're taking advantage of.”

 

“Generosity?” Heldalf repeated. Mikleo was heartened to see he looked rather less dignified with a drippy carrot in his hand. “Do you think for a moment that he would've been generous if he'd been able to fight us off?” He ate the carrot. “Never mind your scruples. I think, if we are to work together, it is time you came clean.”

 

Mikleo slowly put his bowl down.

 

“I have told you my mission and history.” His eyes fixed on Mikleo behind the mask. “Why is it you can't die?”

 

Mikleo debated what was prudent to say and what wasn't. He knew he couldn't trust them, yet Heldalf had divulged his own reasons to him. In the bartering of information, he did owe him.

 

“Strong artes,” he said finally. “A Crystal.”

 

Heldalf waited.

 

“A powerful magician bound a strong artes inside of my heart which connected to the Crystal on my circlet, which...holds me to this world. As long as it's in me and the circlet survive, it won't let my soul leave my body and return to the cycle. And so...that makes it necessary for my body to be healed every time I die.”

 

He didn't add it was Muse, the lord of all Seraph who did it. Heldalf hesitated before speaking, as if he too were deciding which words were prudent.

 

“A spell of that caliber would require both a phenomenally strong magician and an exceptional artes. Artes are by no means perfect, and the Crystal, they can break easily.”

 

Mikleo thought a moment. “I don't know whose soul the Crystal was, and the circlet is pretty sturdy compared to most of the Gleenwood materials. But the person who placed it in me is very powerful.”

 

“The only person of that strength and...audacity,” Heldalf said, “was Alisha the Knight Queen and her aide.” He watched Mikleo carefully. “Who has been dead for two hundred years.”

 

Mikleo shrugged. “It wasn't her, if that's what you're getting at.”

 

“A soul anchored to an unholy Crystal. Some would consider you cursed.”

 

Mikleo turned away.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

They left the forest in the morning. Heldalf offered no thanks to their host, but Mikleo left one of his remaining dried fruits, hoping he wouldn't think it was poisoned. For the first time, he saw the sky less than overcast, patchy blue and white. The grass had caught hundreds of water droplets, giving the hills a hard sparkle, almost like snow.

 

The earth dragon and the ruins were still at a great distance, only shapes on the horizon. The three travelers saw people in the fields and forest, checking snares, digging up potatoes, gathering berries. There were never more than four of them together at a time, but Mikleo felt reassured. Yes, there was a dragon, but these people were still scraping a life together.

 

Then they heard tinkling laughter. Mikleo turned and saw two large, bounding shapes approaching. He stiffened. Heldalf turned his head scornfully, and Michael hmphed. Sustaining yourself was one thing, but laughing in the shadow of the dragon was quite another.

 

As the shapes approached, Mikleo realized that they were large, blue-gray horses with riders, the horses moving in large, strut. The faster rider threw her hand back and whooped, her long, purple hair catching the sun. She was holding a wide-brimmed straw hat, and the other rider galloped up, making a grab for it - another girl, smaller with ash blonde hair.

 

“Maltran, you villain! Give it back!” the younger girl demanded, her accent unfamiliar to Mikleo.

 

“If you're going to be a queen-” the bluehead, Maltran, reined her horse to the side, out of reach “-you need to learn how to steal things back!”

 

“Oh-!” The younger girl nearly slid out of her saddle as she made a lunge for the hat. “Don't make me trample you!”

 

“Hold on a minute,” Maltran said, turning to see Mikleo, Heldalf and Michael. She lowered the hand that held the hat. “Watch it, Alisha. We've got company.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Aren't we taking a long time about this?”_

 

“ _What do you mean? We only have a year to make you ready.”_

 

“ _Yes, but we can't be the only ones who'll try to kill him. Even if he's a good man, he'll have enemies.”_

 

“ _Oh, you're worried someone will beat us to it? Hm. I wouldn't.”_

 

“ _Why not?”_

 

“ _He is very powerful. And...in the end, I think that's for the best. I know of no better person to kill him.”_

* * *

 

 

Alisha drew back in the saddle, then seemed to realize what she was doing. She squared her shoulders and put her small chin out, almost glaring at the three of them. Maltran languidly put a hand on her hip, though Mikleo noticed her eyes remained tense. Both women - Alisha seemed about Mikleo's age, Maltran a bit older - looked more cared-for than anyone else Mikleo had seen so far. Though their long jackets weren't ornate, they were clean and well-fitted. Their horses were glossy and energetic. Alisha had a flower tied to her side tail hair, and Maltran had a short copper chain around her neck. Both fashioned the same one side-tail hairstyle.

 

“Who are you?” Maltran demanded. There was nothing shrill about her voice, just a smooth note of command. “I've never seen you around here.”

 

Heldalf made no effort to hide his sneer. “Stand aside, unless you'll make us walk around you.”

 

“No one's come here for ages,” Maltran said. She raised a dubious eyebrow. “What, are you going to try taking out the dragon? That's the only reason people come here.”

 

Heldalf swept to the side, passing Alisha and her horse.

 

“If you are,” Maltran continued, “you'll want to talk to our father.”

 

“I have no time for rustic politics.”

 

Maltran curled her upper lip with a haughtiness equal to Heldalf's. “Sure. But you won't find anyone who knows more about the earth dragon.”

 

Heldalf tilted his head back in her direction, but said nothing for a long moment. “And I suppose your father is a great Seraph from the mystic village of Elysia who was present when the age of calamity was started?”

 

Maltran didn't look fazed, though Alisha was rubbing her reins between her fingers, clearly anxious. “Maltran,” she interposed, “if they don't want to come, they don't have to.”

 

“Father's a researcher.” Maltran laughed humorlessly, nodding in the direction of the dragon. “We've been following her for five years now. I can't remember how many time's Dad's gotten hurt, or just barely escaped.”

 

Though he certainly didn't know him well, Mikleo thought he could see Heldalf struggling for a moment. Finally he spoke, the proud edge of his voice slipping just slightly. “Perhaps your father may be of some use. Take me to him.”

 

“Huh.” Maltran leaned back and surveyed Heldalf from the height of her horse, though the curve of her lips showed she was pleased with having wrung that out of him. “Pretty important, aren't you? We should just hop to obey, right Alisha?”

 

Alisha, for her part, chewed her lower lip, then, noticing Mikleo watching, stopped.

 

“Do not waste my time with affectations,” Heldalf drawled. “Take me to your father or begone.”

 

Maltran reined her horse around. “I hope you have money,” was all she said before she kicked the horse into a trot.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

The two women led them along the edge of the forest, not ducking inside until they'd gone more than two miles. There was a rough dirt road, probably originally intended as nothing more than a woodsman's path. Maltran insisted her little sister ride in front while she took the rear - to watch them, Mikleo was sure. Alisha hadn't relaxed, her slim back straight as she rode ahead of them.

 

Their house was larger than any of the huts Mikleo had seen, made of wood. Most of it rested in a small circle of trees, but he noticed ladders leading to small tree houses in three of the trees. The one window-hole even had a pane - of a type. It seemed to be a large sheaf of paper, greased to transparency. Mikleo tried not to grimace at the flies sticking to it. The tree houses had painted shutters.

 

“Father!” Alisha called out, voice trembling a moment. “We have guests.”

 

A dumpy man with hair the same color as Alisha's stepped out. “Maltran - Alisha - what's - oh my! Goodness me, guests.”

 

They came to a stop in front of the house. With a ticklish feeling up his spine, Mikleo realized that Michael stood directly behind him.

 

“You are the researcher?” Heldalf demanded. “What is your name?”

 

Maltran gave Heldalf a withering look as she dismounted. “They want to know about the earth dragon. They're willing to pay tons.”

 

They hadn't discussed payment, but Heldalf didn't react beyond stiffening. Probably protesting was beneath him.

 

“Ah - yes, er...” The researcher stared up into Heldalf's mask. “My name is Mayvin. Pleased to make your acquaintance, er...?”

 

“I am Georg Heldalf the fifth.” Heldalf smiled as Mayvin took a step back, then recollected himself.

 

“Ah, yes, so that must be...” He nodded at Michael. “Quite so. And...”

 

“I'm Mikleo. Thanks-” he gave Heldalf a hard look, which he probably didn't notice “-for your time.”

 

Mayvin dry-washed his hands for a moment, glancing around the small crowd. “Well, why don't you come in? Girls, put the horses away.”

 

It was a single-room cottage with a round, clay stove in the center. There weren't any chairs, just old, plump cushions. Heldalf and Mikleo accepted Mayvin's invitation to sit, but Michael stood by the window, looking out. Mayvin set to making tea, his movements quick and efficient.

 

“I hope I may be of some use to you, Lord Heldalf,” Mayvin said once the tea was ready to pour. The cups were also clay, but someone had taken the time to etch flowers around their rims.

 

“Though I'm sure your knowledge of the dragons is considerable. What in particular do you wish to discuss?”

 

Heldalf sipped his tea, cocked his head, then took a longer sip.

 

“You are correct that my family has made a study of the lizard, in as much as they bring us closer to the Shepherd.”

 

Behind him, Maltran and Alisha stepped inside. Maltran made quite a show of lounging on her hip next to Mikleo and looking bored, but Alisha stood, hovering in the back.

 

“However, our knowledge is limited to their basics. Or, rather, how they kill people.” He took another sip. “What beyond that have you learned?”

 

“Well, the earth dragon seems to have a, unique, personality,” Mayvin said. “I don't say I've ever had the pleasure of talking to her, but she can talk. Quite so. Three years ago, while I was tracking her movements, she encountered wind dragon by the ruins. They seemed to get into a bit of an argument. At least, the earth dragon was pitching boulders while the wind dragon was belching a noxious gas. But in the middle of this, I'm sure they were talking - couldn't make heads or tails of the language - and based on how often she laughed, I'd guess the earth dragon got the upper hand.”

 

Heldalf drummed his fingers against his knee. “The dragons' sense of humor was not exactly what I had in mind...”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Mayvin was fond of lecturing, and Heldalf seemed to be all patience while he sifted through the stream of information for something useful. Mikleo's legs twinged painfully, and he went outside to stretch them. Maltran had escaped to one of the tree houses, and Michael had left some time before.

 

Mikleo walked down the forest path, careful not to lose his bearings, moving through the rungs of light that slanted through the trees. Maybe there was a stream somewhere... After all the battles and traveling, he wasn't sure he'd ever feel clean again.

 

After a moment, he realized someone was walking alongside him. Turning, he came face to face with Michael.

 

He exhaled heavily; he'd been half-expecting Slay.

 

“Do you know the story of that circlet?” Michael asked, apropos of nothing.

 

“Um - no.”

 

He expected Michael to launch into its history, but he didn't. He waited a long moment, then said, “When we find the Shepherd, I will kill him.”

 

Mikleo hesitated. “We'll probably both get fair shots.”

 

“Child,” Michael said severely, “your mission is as nothing to mine. The Shepherd is mine to kill.”

 

Mikleo stopped walking. In the end, what did it matter as long as Slay was killed? Yet...Muse had always stressed the importance of Mikleo's mission, how she had worked to make Mikleo the one to do it.

 

“We have the same goal. Why can't we work together to do it?”

 

Michael glowered, only a moment. “You were not there when I killed him before.”

 

Mikleo's eyes widened. “What? How-?”

 

Michael laughed dryly. “Though you may ask if your circlet was there.”

 

Mikleo touched his circlet, peeking up. When he turned back, Michael was gone.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

“I think it's foolhardy,” Mayvin said the next morning, drawing a pan of cornbread out of the stove. “One dragon is equal to thousands of soldiers. I don't think there are enough people in the world to destroy all three and the Lord of Calamity.”

 

“You try telling the rebels that.” Maltran gave a wry smile before biting into an apple. “They're all over the south apparently. 'We're going to kill the dragons!' 'We're going to kill the Shepherd!' Once they hear about Lasstonbell, they'll go totally crazy.”

 

“Well, if those radicals come here, we're going to steer well clear of them.”

 

Mayvin handed Heldalf a square of cornbread. The little researcher was still hoarse from last night's rambling, but that didn't stop him from offering Heldalf more commentary on the earth dragon. Mikleo hadn't seen Michael since yesterday. Absentmindedly, he carressed his circlet. He studied it, his brow furrowed, before taking some cornbread.

 

Mayvin looked up. “Ah, Alisha my dear, there you are.” His younger daughter was just stepping in. “You're late for breakfast.”

 

“I'm afraid I slept in,” Alisha said breathlessly, removing her gloves.

 

Gloves? Mikleo looked at Alisha again as she knelt next to Maltran. Who put gloves on to come downstairs for breakfast? There was a spot of damp mud on Alisha's skirt, and a few dewdrops clung to her hair.

 

Mikleo didn't think he had any right to mention it.

 

“Did you learn anything useful?” Mikleo asked, once the three of them had put some distance between themselves and Mayvin's house.

 

“You would have done well to listen,” was all Heldalf said. It wasn't until they'd come out of the forest before he spoke again. “We must prepare ourselves to meet the dragon.”

 

Michael lifted his chin. “I'm ready.”

 

“We will attack her only as a last resort.” Heldalf regarded Michael, then Mikleo. “Until then, leave matters to me.”

 

Mikleo might have brought up their last encounter with a powerful being, but he didn't feel it would be wise.

 

When they were still two hundred yards away from the dragon, Heldalf lifted his sword, still in its scabbard.

 

“Greetings, earth dragon!”

 

The dragon seemed to be sleeping, her hind legs tucked under herself while her front legs crossed under her head as makeshift pillow. For a moment, she didn't move, then her eyes opened, and she slowly turned her head. The front legs, which Mayvin had said bore claws sharper than any metal, remained still.

 

“I have traveled long to meet you, mighty dragon. I come not as an enemy but as a supplicant.”

 

The earth dragon's eyes curved slightly. “Oh, go on. I _never_ get tired of the sniveling.”

 

Even at this distance, the sarcasm was clear. Heldalf did not hesitate to fall back several steps. Mikleo knew he already had a Crystal ready to transport with. Skin going cold for a moment, Mikleo wondered if he'd get taken along.

 

The earth dragon continued. “Don't bother with speech-making either, I know why you're here. You want to screw over my master the bastard.”

 

Heldalf caught his breath. Mikleo shifted his weight. Mayvin hadn't said anything about the earth dragon being able to mind-read.

 

“And you want it to be an inside job. You want the old dragon's help. Can't say I wouldn't like to help you.”The ground shook as the earth dragon raised herself to her four feet. “But you see, I'm not a very patient killing machine, especially with mistakes. And humans are so useless, when it comes down to everything.”

 

Heldalf summoned the Crystal.

 

“Now, I was told to wait here pending further orders,” the earth dragon said, “and, I have to say, it's just the weeniest bit dull. I'm feeling stiff!”

 

Claws sprang into being, a giant boulder suspended between them. Heldalf raised his sword. the earth dragon threw the boulder. Mikleo ran out of the line of range. Michael jumped in front of Heldalf. The boulder impacted with Heldalf protected behind Michael. However, Heldalf's Crystal shattered.

 

“Fall back, Heldalf,” Michael growled. “This is too much for you.”

 

Heldalf appeared to agree. While he didn't tear off like a coward, he didn't waste time backing away. Michael advanced on the dragon, his sword swirling around him. Mikleo took a deep breath and drew his own blade, stepping closer.

 

“Oh ho.” the earth dragon's voice remained callous and jovial. “The maggots are back for more. Cold, are you?”

 

She threw her head back and roared, then lunged forward, raking her claws across the ground.

 

Mikleo saw many things all at once: Michael raising his sword to block; the fire igniting the grass; boulders and rocks flying left and right; the hot, oily air; the side of his trousers black with ash. Then he felt a terrible heat, a pounding in his breastbone, and then, for a blessed moment, he felt nothing.

 

“What the _hell_?” was the first thing Mikleo heard as he instinctively rolled into a sitting position, then to his feet, the circlet was hot on his forehead.

 

The earth dragon loomed high above, staring down first at him, then Michael, who wasn't even hurted.

 

“Not even the undead withstand my attack!” She concentrated her next attack on Michael. For a moment, the warrior was buried in ash and rocks, but when the rocks cleared, he still stood.

 

“Back away, slave,” Michael said. “You aren't worth my time.”

 

“I'd heard stories of the Heldalf's little zombie,” the earth dragon said, more than a hint of a growl in her voice.

 

Then, most unexpectedly, she threw her head back and howled like a wolf - if a wolf were the size of a volcano. High, high above, the air bubbled.

 

“Ah, does baby Edny need her Slay? Has someone been mean?”

 

With a flare of red fire, the Shepherd appeared.

 

The earth dragon seethed, smoke rising from between her fangs, shoulders hunched with reluctant submission.

 

“Master-”

 

“Having trouble guarding a bunch of grubs in a dinky little forest? What, did they throw rocks at you? Did a bird shit in your eye?”

 

The earth dragon spoke between her teeth, her eyes narrowed to bright slits.

 

“Your friends the suicidal kitty beard and the undead thug are here.”

 

“And they've pulled down your pants and slapped your ass? Well, seeing as it's you, I shouldn't be surprised.”

 

The Shepherd's dark shape swept down, already angling his weapon up as a flamming sword. “Lo and behold, it's Lord My-Cell and the Half-Daft.”

 

That one earned him quite a few stares. Slay lifted his eyebrows.

 

“And my new BFF, the amazing human cockroach. I hope you weren't ready to bargain, because I'm going to kill these turds whether you join me or not.”

 

“My-Cell and Half-Daft?” The earth dragon muttered.

 

Not looking back, Slay made a slashing movement with his sword. A raw, fiery gash opened across the earth dragon's face. Michael gave Mikleo a hard, quelling look, then turned to the Shepherd, raising his sword.

 

“My revenge has festered too long.”

 

“I was really looking forward to you kicking the habit one of these decades.”

 

Mikleo pressed his lips together, then took a deep breath and stepped forward.

 

Michael glared at him sidelong. “Step back, child.”

 

“Ah no, you should really let him,” Slay interrupted. “Have you seen what he can do? He's incredible. The other day, I beheaded him, and his head just-”

 

“Step _back_ ,” Michael demanded.

 

“This is my mission too.” At least his voice didn't shake.

 

“And chances look good he'll be doing it longer than you,” Slay added. “I'm seeing at least three centuries' worth of sneak attacks, pitched duels, grandiose speeches and all sorts of drama.” He thought a moment. “And more beheadings. That was freakin' awesome.”

 

Michael half-turned, then gathered himself. “My revenge will not be thwarted by a child with a stolen relic.”

 

Faster than Mikleo could've believed, he was on him. Somehow he'd parried, the blade delicate against Michael's sword, the impact reverberating through his skeleton. He wrenched his blade around, aiming for his stomach, but Michael blocked, swiping his sword along his to Mikleo's face. Mikleo fell back, then lunged - was blocked - lunged again.

 

“Is this a really hard concept for you people?” Slay asked. “You can't kill him. He can auto-revive.”

 

Michael swung - missed - then drove his shoulder against Mikleo's. Mikleo stumbled back, his swordstroke going wide. The sword shoved deep into his stomach, pain exploding in his body, and -

 

\- and the thrumming inside his heart came, his circlet become warm, relaxing him and guiding him into momentary darkness -

 

\- and then light flickered on the edges of his vision, which had never happened before.

 

\- and then something inside him shattered.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

When the darkness lifted, Mikleo was lying on his back, staring up at a blue-patched sky.

 

“Back with us, huh? Well, your friends ran, as usual.”

 

Mikleo prodded his stomach. Of course it was whole and unmarked, but... He turned his head and saw Slay's boots. He stepped one foot over Mikleo and looked down at him.

 

“So this is an impasse, huh? You're not powerful enough to touch me, and I can't seem to scrape you off the underside of my shoe. I think teaming up would save us both a lot of headaches.”

 

Mikleo barely heard him, trying to chivvy his mind to think more quickly. What had just happened, there with Michael? Had-

 

“Team up?” the earth dragon's voice came from far away. “What, Slay, are you getting bored with ultimate power?”

 

Slay slashed the air with his giant sword. Mikleo couldn't see the dragon, but he heard her cry out.

 

Had the arted...his Crystal...?

 

He remembered the sharp disintegrating in his chest.

 

Mikleo tried to take a deep breath. Couldn't. Tried again. Slay smiled and laid his boot across Mikleo's throat, not putting any weight on it.

 

“What? Speechless?”

 

He wasn't used to thinking fast, nor to being in this sort of danger. His mind jerked wildly from one impossible plan to another.

 

“You look sick. Oh noez, you were betwayed by your fwiends! How...obvious it was. I mean, I bet even Edna could tell it was going to happen.”

 

“I-” Only one plan opened itself up to him. Only one plan that seemed like it might work. It didn't hearten him. “Sure,” he said after a moment, “why not?”

 

Slay raised his eyebrows again, but didn't look pleased. “Wait, so you're accepting my offer?”

 

Mikleo made his voice come clearly, looking up into his face. “Yes.”

 

Slay put his head to one side. “You think I don't recognize a scheme when I see one?” His foot pressed down on Mikleo's windpipe. “This is going to be one of these deals where you pretend to play along while waiting for the chance to stab me in the back, isn't it?”

 

Well, there went that plan.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Glenwood are different from here. It may confuse you. It may even make you...forget what's happened here. But there's something you must remember, no matter what happens.”_

 

“ _My mission?”_

 

“ _That I love you.”_

 

* * *

 

“So what?” Mikleo struggled to keep his voice steady, despite the pressure of Slay's boot on his throat. “You keep saying that there's no way I can touch you.”

 

“True enough, but I'm not trusting this personality 180.” He lessened the pressure, then tapped the toe of his boot against Mikleo's jugular. “I might have a bit of an ego, but I know I wasn't persuading you _that_ well. Hell, you let the little family take the fall just to defy me. And I don't think I've broken your mind yet. So that leaves double-crossing.”

 

Mikleo gazed past him, up to the sky for a moment. “You forgot desperation.”

 

“Desperation? What do you have to be desperate about? As much as I've tried, I haven't gotten rid of you.”

 

He hoped Slay didn't see his pulse quicken, sense his heart beating rapidly for a moment. If he could die now - Slay could _not_ know that. Not unless Mikleo told him. Or he killed him and Mikleo didn't spring back up. Heh. Wouldn't he be disappointed? His pulse wouldn't slow down.

 

“I'm kind of hopeless at the moment,” Mikleo said, not looking fully at him. “I mean, I came here to kill you. I don't want to spend eternity trying to do that one thing.”

 

He smiled sweetly. “Aren't I good company?”

 

“I'm just saying,” Mikleo went on, out-talking the desire to panic, “I think I've...” he thought back to his previous talk with Slay, internally wincing at the lie. “I think I've been played, and...”

 

“And you're going to sulk by joining forces with the Slim Slay?” His smile now showed his teeth, for a moment. “You want revenge?”

 

Mikleo raised his eyebrows. “Don't tell me you're shocked and appalled.”

 

Finally, Slay stepped off his neck. “Nah, just suspicious.”

 

He realized he was still holding his blade. Slowly, he sat up, his movements oddly careful.

 

“Heh,” said Edna from high above. Slay glanced up, but the dragon said nothing else.

 

“We're ditching this backwater shit factory,” Slay said.

 

He waited just long enough for Mikleo to get to his feet before clamping onto his wrist. “Edna, you know what your orders are. Oh, and this time, don't be a wuss about them.”

 

Before Mikleo knew he had done anything, the air was swirling around them, oddly hot. Neater than with Heldalf's artes, the swirling sensation broke apart and they stood on the ramparts of Dame du lac Castle.

 

Slay dropped his wrist and walked away.

 

“Go amuse yourself. You'll probably have time to try one or two sneak attacks before I figure out the best way to use you.”

 

Mikleo watched him go, glad he couldn't see his legs shaking.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

It was ridiculous. He kept telling himself this. For twenty years, he'd been a simple mortal; for a little more than a week, he'd been a creature unable to die. He should be used to one, not the other. But now he found himself fighting back surges of terror when he realized he only had one chance at life. That when he next died, it would be for good. No more special favors.

 

He needed a plan. A plan better than _Hope_ _I find an opportunity to stab him in the back and hope he doesn't manage to kill me before I get there and it might be nice if he's drunk at the time and, oh, maybe if someone else has already hurt him quite a bit because otherwise there's no way I can do this_.

 

He walked carefully. What if he tripped coming down these long stone stairs and cracked his head open? What if he didn't look where he was going and tumbled off a rampart? What if he met another one of the castle's traps and couldn't escape? _You can't be paranoid,_ he told himself. But he wasn't sure how long he could fight the urge to abandon all reason and run away.

 

_You can fight it. You can fight it as long as you have to. Muse wouldn't send you to your death._

 

Muse' plan had shattered with the artes.

 

He wandered the hallways aimlessly, eating the last of his dried fruit, trying to guess what would happen next. Slay might tell him to kill some people. How long could he fend that off?

 

“...have to wonder, what's there to do?”

 

From above, he heard someone laughing. Mikleo took the first staircase he could find. It was familiar. Yes, this led to the room where those people, whoever they were, had been. Again, he opened the door without knocking.

 

The table, which he now saw was spread with maps and several books, had been pushed away from the fire. In its place were two threadbare chairs that had probably been grand when this was still a king's palace. The spectacled man - Eguille, he remembered - sat in one, the blue-haired man in the other. However, it was the hooded woman's voice Mikleo heard as the dark figure emerged from the shadows.

 

“Ah, another acolyte has joined our number. Welcome, young one, to death's resting-place.”

 

The woman looked like she was about to clasp Mikleo's hands, so Mikleo stepped to the side, towards the firelight.

 

“Um...What are you people doing here?”

 

Eguille tapped his pipe and gave him an arch look.

 

Mikleo tried again. “The Shepherd asked you to come?”

 

“Of course,” the woman effused while Eguille laughed.

 

“Felice may say differently, but the Shepherd certainly never invited _me_ here.”

 

“My lord beckoned to me from on high.” Felice raised her hands to the ceiling. “I saw him as he destroyed the last remnants of Lasstonbell the other day. What other master could there be?”

 

A long stream of laughter bubbled out of her. Eguille raised an eyebrow.

 

“He - beckoned - to you, Felice?” He puffed out his pipe. “I'd bet three cases of wine he flipped you the bird.”

 

Felice's voice lowered, and her shoulders hunched under the black cloak.

 

“Be happy in your disbelief, infidel. It will make your death all the swifter.”

“I admire efficiency,” Eguille replied blithely. He turned to Mikleo. “I don't believe I caught your name.”

 

“It's Mikleo.” he ran his hand through his hair. “So then why _are_ you here? Where are the others?”

 

Eguille glanced around. “I think Mason's trying to find his way out. As for Grimkin...” He shrugged. “I haven't seen him for two days. As for why we're here...” He tapped his pipe again. “I can't speak for us all, but they say the safest place in a tornado is the center.”

 

“I am my lord's faithful slave,” Felice spoke up, though Mikleo hadn't intended to ask her anything. “As he has guided my soul through death, so will he guide it again. So will he guide yours. So will he guide the world's!” More laughter.

 

“What about you?” Eguille asked before he had a chance to ask the other man.

 

He held out a tray of crystallized ginger up to Mikleo. Mikleo reached for one, then drew his hand back.

 

“Where did you get this?” he hadn't seen delicacies of any kind, not in this world.

 

Eguille smiled. Actually, he almost always smiled, but the smile deepened.

 

“Some people's talent lies in fighting.” He nodded at Mikleo's blade. “Mine does not.”

 

Mikleo had a hunch he didn't mean that he was a gourmet chef. He waved the ginger off.

 

“The Shepherd asked me to come here. He wants me to...” Mikleo shrugged. “...fight for him.”

 

Eguille raised his eyebrows. “Well, that's unusual.” He reached down and plucked a wine glass off the floor. “He's seemed so - Oh, would you like some? Are you sure? Very well then. The Shepherd's been behaving peculiarly lately.”

 

Felice laughed, but shortly this time. “If my lord does not share his plans with you, don't call it peculiar, old man.”

 

“The Shepherd's never spoken once to me. In fact, I can count on one hand the times I've laid eyes on him.” He sipped his wine. “But there are other ways to observe a man, even if he is the Lord of Calamity.”

 

Mikleo knew he wasn't skilled enough to manipulate the conversation indirectly, so he just asked, “How have things changed?”

 

“Until what happened at Lasstonbell, the Shepherd had been quiet for almost a year. And before that, he hardly ventured beyond Dame du lac. When I was a young boy in the east, there were even those who said he'd departed the world.”

 

“He doesn't seem like he's lost his, er, zest for killing people.” he winced, thinking of Sindra and Margaret.

 

Eguille inclined his head to Mikleo. “It's my belief that he was bored.”

 

Ignoring a wordless outburst from Felice, he continued, “After conquering all Hyland and Rolance and subjugating most of the people, there can't be much else to do. But now he's gone and made clean work of Lasstonbell. From what I've heard, the temples aren't even standing.” He took a long draw on his pipe. “Something's shaken him awake.”

 

“Fool,” Felice said witheringly. “His ways would be clear if you were attuned to his will.”

 

Eguille flashed his teeth, his pipe stem stuck between them. “And what _is_ his will, Felice?”

 

“It is not my place to divine his mysteries to skeptics like you.”

 

There was a brief silence, then the blue-haired man chuckled. “Divine - mysteries - Ha ha! Skeptics!”

 

Eguille nodded. “Indeed, Rosh.” He picked up a slip of ginger, then turned it over in his fingers. “Why don't you take a seat, Mikleo, and tell us more about yourself?”

 

“Thanks, but - um - I really need to get my bearings. I'll see you people later.” he knew it was impolite, but he was already halfway to the door.

 

As he stepped out, he heard Eguille say, “I suppose I should reply to Hawthorne's letter. His news about those southern radicals was certainly intriguing. And with any luck, he can get us more ginger.”

 

Mikleo's wanderings eventually led him to the throne room. It looked as though Slay had once made this his territory during his reign. Countless skulls lay heaped around the throne, which bore deep scour marks. He stepped onto the dais, then faced the room. Tattered banners still hung from the ceiling. There were bullets embedded in the walls. He walked the length of the throne room, the carpet, threadbare and stiff with ancient brown bloodstains. The doors were opened by a crank, counter-weighted so they could be manipulated by one person. However, the doors were slightly ajar, and he slipped between them. It led down a wide hallway that quickly branched. He took one hall, then turned down another, and third, stepping between two more doors into a large chamber. There was the gallery he and Bertram and all his knights had attempted to cross...how many days ago? Less than a week. From the balcony above, he could see the faint seam in the floor.

 

He retraced his steps and took another hallway, the next set of stairs leading down. Eventually, he came to a small door nestled in the side of the castle. He stepped out into the open air. Mikleo glanced up at the castle. Well now, should he make a run for it?

 

He shook his head. At best, he'd evade Slay for a day or so. Slay'd surely kill Mikleo when he caught up, for old time's sake.

 

So he looked not at the castle, but ahead.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Beyond the city, he could see Laila's shape, the dragon was flying circling around before landed somewhere behind the city's wall. Mikleo thought a moment, then set off at a jog, skirting the edge of the castle's inner wall. He ran under the gate and into the city. He didn't know the twisting streets, but He made sure he always moved in Laila's direction, and eventually he found himself standing at Dame du lac's portcullis. As before, people gathered there, trading, talking, picking each others' pockets. They even laughed. He walked out of the city.

 

 _When I came here, I thought I'd be able to fulfill my mission_. He took a deep breath, trying not to let his heart sink.

 

A few people were standing outside the gates, pointing and commenting on the fire dragon. Mikleo sat down, legs crossed, and waited for night.

 

When he was fairly sure he wouldn't be seen easily, Mikleo rose and jogged towards the dragon. This had been so much simpler last time, with the guarantee that he couldn't be killed permanently. Still, he had no other ideas.

 

“ _Fethus Moima,”_ he whispered up in the Celestial tongue, _“please, speak to me. You're the only one who can help me.”_

 

Laila sat silent.

 

Pulse tapping in his throat, Mikleo stepped close and touched the hot scales. _“Please help me, Laila. Then we can all be at peace.”_

 

There was a flutter of images in his mind, blasting lights, a starry night sky, a city. He thought it might be Lasstonbell.

 

“ _Tell me what happened to Sorey.”_ Mikleo thought a moment. _“Muse said he's dead, but she also wants me to kill him. She's never said why. Who was he?”_

 

More flickering images, as quick and as random, fire, bodies, a cathedral, blood on alabaster, dark green eyes. Mikleo tensed. He had seen those eyes before.

 

_“Not Slay. I need to know about Sorey.”_

 

The scales flared with heat, but Mikleo didn't break the contact. Through Laila, he saw a sky with blood-colored clouds, Slay beating her with a fiery sword, Slay took out a sword from Laila's chest, her face pale, red dress flared on the floor, then Elysia, quiet and serene. He saw Muse herself standing with Laila as she once was, he saw - Slay? Slay walking with an old lightning Seraph, Muse and Laila.

 

Mikleo reflexively drew his hand back. How had Slay entered Elysia? Slay'd admitted he wasn't from Elysia. Mikleo touched the scales again, biting back a cry of pain.

_“What about Sorey?”_

 

He saw Laila half prone on the ground, streaming with blood. Red dress turned darker. Slay knelt over her, his face stricken, one hand touching her face. Then he saw only battlefields and fire, and as much as he pleaded with the dragon, he was shown nothing else.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _I wish you'd come with me when I go down there. You know you can.”_

 

“ _I'm not sure having you feel protected would be for the best.”_

* * *

 

 

“...And after seeing the state of things, I really think coming right to the eye of the storm was the most prudent move.” Eguille made to pour Mikleo some wine, but he waved it off.

 

“It's only my headquarters, actually. I found some rooms on the lower levels that the Shepherd appears not to have touched. I think they're old closets. And from these, I conduct my mercantile business. It's not the sweetest life, but it does well enough.”

 

Mikleo frowned at the omelet Rosh had cooked for him.

 

“I didn't think there was enough organization left in this world for a business.”

 

Eguille finished pouring Rosh's wine.

 

“There are always opportunists.”

 

He said the last word as if its negative connotations didn't exist. Mikleo forked off the edge of his omelet but didn't raise it to his mouth.

 

“And slaves to power this all?”

 

Eguille gave him a concerned look, then dug into his own omelet. Mikleo wasn't sure he believed the concern. He finally took a bite. The omelet was light and fluffy.

 

“It's very good,” he said to Rosh.

 

The cleric shrugged diffidently.

 

“So,” Mikleo continued to the elder of the brothers, “you must know a way out of the castle. To get all this. The wine and stuff.” he'd decided not to tell anyone he'd found a way out on his own. If he could find it again.

 

“Indeed.” Eguille's smile deepened. “I may be the only one here who remembers the way by which he came in.” He regarded Mikleo a moment. “Play your cards right, and I might just tell you what it is.”

 

Mikleo looked down to cut his omelet into small pieces. He didn't waste a huge amount of time guessing what card-playing with Eguille might involve.

 

“Um,” he said after a moment, “can I take some of these rolls? Thanks, just a...few. Good. Um...”

 

Eguille nodded as he shoved three rolls in the haversack that he still carried with him.

 

“I understand. Hoarding is something of a nervous habit, but it's excusable in these circumstances.” As he got up to go, he continued, “Come talk to me if you feel worried.”

 

Mikleo left the room with the fireplace and moved down the left-hand hallway. He'd been here less than twenty-four hours, but he was beginning to feel comfortable with at least this stretch of the castle.

 

Rising through the galleries, he found a balcony. He knelt on the stone floor, crossing his elbows on the balcony rail. The wind felt cool but oddly dry. Dust from the northeast had swarmed over the city, hiding much of it. Some lamps and campfires shown out like marshlights.

 

“Ah...” breathed a low voice, “offering your prayers to my lord? May he hear them and favor you.”

 

Mikleo leaned his face into his arms and stifled a groan. Then he straightened and stood just as Felice joined him on the balcony.

 

“Come,” the woman continued, “let us worship together.”

 

“I have to go, um, do - something.”

 

Mikleo backed hurriedly into the castle. To his dismay, Felice was just as swift at changing tact as he was.

 

“Then let me walk with you, acolyte.”

 

She put her hand on Mikleo's arm. Mikleo slid his arm away and stepped to the side.

 

“You are new here and must be... acclimatized to our society.”

 

“Um...” Mikleo walked quickly down the hall.

 

Could he simply outpace the woman and leave it at that? Out of thin air, a giant, black snake materialized in the center of the hallway.

 

Mikleo pressed himself against the wall, presenting as small a target as possible as the snake breathed a flume of fire. Mikleo used the fire as a cover to draw his weapon, and he blindly made a quick lunge for the snake's thin neck. He felt the blade scrape over the hard scales, then angle point-downward into the soft flesh at the creature's throat. The snake squealed and raked its fangs forward. One made contact, making a long, shallow gash down Mikleo's leg. He sidestepped, ignoring the pain and the sick feeling of blood trickling down his skin. The snake watched him narrowly, its head lowered to protect its wounded neck. Mikleo considered a moment, then lunged for its face. It openes its fangs to block and strike in one motion, and Mikleo, expecting this, wrenched his blade around in a slash, biting deep into the snake's under belly. He didn't cut through the bone, but the snake slumped, unable to support itself. Roaring, it breathed fire again. Mikleo just barely dodged, his shoulder crashing against the hallway's too-close wall.

 

As he rebounded, he made a desperate thrust for the side of the snake's neck. He overbalanced - his blade crunched into the snake's middle body, he wasn't sure where - and he fell against its side. Without really thinking, he used their proximity to drive the blade deeper, twisting it. The snake's whole body vibrated as it roared, vomiting fire. Mikleo pushed the sword in deeper. The snake's scales scraped until the hilt. It took him a moment to realize the snake was belching more blood than fire.

 

Mikleo waited until the snake was perfectly still before he stood, pain burning up his leg, braced on foot against the creature's stomach, and wrenched his blade free. Then he fell to his knees, more from the sudden down-surge of adrenaline than agony. He used this as an excuse to clean his blade as best he could on the carpet.

 

“Truly you are a peon almost worthy of the great Lord of Calamity,” Felice effused.

 

Mikleo's head jerked up. Felice stood before him, robe more than a little singed but otherwise unhurt.

 

“Right,”

 

Mikleo muttered, using his blade for support as he climbed back to his feet. His right leg, the wounded, trembled but took his weight. He didn't have anything to wrap it with, not unless Felice offered to rip off a strip of her robe. The woman didn't. Mikleo limped down the hall, looking for somewhere quiet to collect himself. However, Felice continued to follow, going on and on about the favor of the gods and the might of the Shepherd and how she, Felice, had been blessed a thousandfold in her dedication to him.

 

Mikleo randomly opened a door. This probably used to be a sitting room. There was a long, dusty divan, onto which he lowered himself. He lay back, scooting until his injured leg lay across the highest point of the couch, above chest-level. His skin felt hot, but his sweat was still cold from adrenaline. He closed his eyes.

 

“Fear not,” Felice crooned, bending over Mikleo. “If you're dying, you're dying in death's cradle. Fear not his embrace, as cold as it may be.”

 

“From what I can tell, he's only in danger of drowning in the shit you're spewing.”

 

Opening his eyes, Mikleo say Felice cast herself flat onto the floor, face-down.

 

“Oh lord, thank you for shedding the benevolent rays of your light over your abject slave. I-”

 

“Who are you again?” Slay interrupted, staring down at her. Even he'd drawn slightly back.

 

“To be forgotten by you is sweeter than life,” Felice rhapsodized.

 

Slay considered a moment, then kicked at her head. Felice scrambled away, crawling backwards, still bobbing her head in a bow.

 

“I will not anger my lord - I will not demean him with my attention - I ask only that he remember my years of faithful service.” As soon as she was out the door, they heard the sound of running footsteps, diminishing.

 

“I didn't know you had a religion,” Mikleo commented.

 

An ancient blanket had been draped over the divan, and though it was filthy, he wrapped it around his elevated leg.

 

Slay shrugged. “One or two. You'd be surprised how many people want to worship someone who oppresses them. Why isn't that curing itself?”

 

“It doesn't work that way. My body only restores itself once it's been killed.”

 

That was true enough, or had been. Once he had something to absorb the bloodflow, Mikleo fished through his haversack for the packet of medicines Muse had given him. He chewed a leaf of bloodbane with purgefell. It wasn't instant like a curing spell, but this would heal his wound eventually.

 

“So onto the snake.” Slay put his hands in his pockets and looked down at him. “What was with the Little Mr. Timidity bit? You should've just gone straight for the snake's face, fire or not. It couldn't do anything permanent to you.”

 

Mikleo almost stopped chewing the herbs. “You set that hellion on me?”

 

“ _Why_ are you surprised? Anyway, I was disappointed. If you're going to work for me, I need you to be efficient.”

 

He swallowed the leaves and sighed. “I killed it. That's all that really matters.”

 

“I'll be the judge of that. Killing it would've been impressive for a normal human, but I'm expecting more from my little cockroach.”

 

As Slay frowned down at him, Mikleo suddenly realized that he was lying on his back, his throat, chest and stomach exposed to any attack. The blade lay at his side, but he doubted he'd be fast enough. He flogged his mind into action.

 

“So - um... I was wondering...” he remembered his encounter with Laila last night. “Have you ever met Muse?”

 

He cocked his head at the abrupt change in topic.

 

“You still crying over that? Nah, I've never met the celestial wench. Still, I've never heard of a Seraphim lord who wouldn't screw over that badly. Even if she had sent her pet hero out to save the world.” He smiled. “You can bet she's laughing her ass off now. I know I am!” And he did laugh.

 

Mikleo tried to reason it out. Couldn't. He knew Laila had shown him two visions of Slay being in Elysia. In one of them, he'd been talking with the seraphim. And watching Laila bleed...

 

Slay had moved off to the far end of the room, where there was a window. Gingerly, Mikleo sat up and unwrapped his leg. The bleeding had stopped, though there was still a raw red welt up his skin.

 

Had Slay been lying?

 

He slowly stood. Pain snapped up his leg, and Mikleo steadied himself on the divan. Maybe Laila's visions had been inaccurate. Maybe she was confusing her past life with her present. The tail end of a conversation came back to Mikleo. After a moment, he stepped away from the couch. He still limped, but the leg was healing well.

 

“Slay?”

 

Slay glanced over his shoulder, chin lifted, and Mikleo realized this was the first time he'd used his name to his face.

 

“How often have you fought with Michael?”

 

“The zombie?” Slay glanced to the side, perhaps racking up a series of mental calculations. “Give or take a few false starts...about five hundred times, I think.”

 

Mikleo stopped ten feet from him. “Has he ever...well, won?”

 

“Want me to rip out your tongue?” Slay's eyes tensed. “If he'd won, do you think I'd still be standing here?”

 

Mikleo watched the floating weapon, but it didn't blaze. “He told me once that he'd killed you before.”

 

A subtle, soundless vibration passed through the air, through the weapon. “Friggin' logic receptors aren't working. I'm _still here_.”

 

Mikleo quickly back-pedaled.

 

“It must've just been a boast.” But he didn't believe that somehow, not for a second. “He was saying that to keep me from trying to kill you. I guess he didn't want help.”

 

“Didn't want you stealing his thunder is more like it.” Slowly, the tension was fading from his face. “The dud's been trying to kill me for two centuries. The last thing he wants is some upstart kid coming in and accomplishing it in a week.”

 

“You said I wouldn't have a chance.”

 

“Yeah, but I think we've established how stubbornly delusional he is.”

 

“True.” he scrambled for some other conversation to distract Slay with.

 

He knew it was only a matter of moments before Slay decided he wanted Mikleo to kill someone...or he decided to limber up by killing Mikleo himself. Maybe Mikleo could get close enough to...No, he'd left the blade on the couch.

 

“Did you know there are people living down here?”

 

Slay shrugged again. “Squatters. I'll get around to them one of these weekends.”

 

Mikleo fiddled with one of his bangs, then shifted his weight to his injured leg. It ached dully, and the scar had almost faded.

 

“They're really curious about you. They were telling me all these speculations.”

 

“Yeah?” With a soft swoosh, the giant sword formed and flamming bright. Mikleo braced, sucking in his breath. Slay examined the sword's red blade, then there was another swoop and it had reverted.

 

“I'm male, my favorite color's red, and I don't vote for either party.”

 

“They said that you'd been really quiet until now.”

 

“Aw, is the world pining for its undefeated Grand Master of the Slaughter?”

 

Mikleo tried to copy the casualness of his shrug. “Does it ever get boring?”

 

Slay looked at him sidelong, his lips no longer smiling. He didn't look away, and after a moment, he said,

 

“Hell, yeah. People always yap about individuality, but you know what? Most people die the same way. Shitting their pants and willing to do anything to save themselves.” He looked away. “Mavericks aren't that common.”

 

And in one fluid motion, the sword reformed and swept towards Mikleo. Mikleo swayed to the side, the breeze from the sword hitting his hip.

 

“Aw, you're dodging now,” Slay complained, but he'd reformed the sword into gauntlets already.

 

Mikleo forced a laugh. “I don't want you to get bored too quickly.”

 

“I suppose not. Speaking of which, I think it's about to time you paid for room and board.”

 

He waited until Mikleo had raised his eyebrow. “I keep hearing rumors of a troupe of freedom fighters in the south. I've been thinking that I should make a personal appearance, give them something to aspire to. And I think it's time for your debut.”

 

“Um-”

 

“Go get your blade.”

 

“Uh-”

 

“Go. Get. Your blade.”

 

He got his blade. Slay'd followed him over.

 

“So-”

 

“Just think,” Slay was saying. “The south. Warm, balmy breezes. White sands. Big palm trees. Screaming multitudes.”

 

“I-”

 

He grabbed Mikleo's waist. “Don't say I never take you anywhere.”

 

They disappeared.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“I can only guide you so far. In the end, you will make the hard decisions.”_

 

* * *

They landed in a grassy field, starred by small white wild flowers. Slay grimaced. “Obviously, I've been letting this place...”

 

“...go to seed?” Mikleo supplied.

 

“No lip from you.” Slay released Mikleo's waist.

 

“Where are we? I don't see any-” he caught Slay's glare and didn't finish with “palm trees”.

 

“Okay, look over there - no, _there_. See that? That...smudge thing on the horizon.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Those are the ruins of a crap trap whose name I can't remember. From what Dezel has told me-” Dezel, Mikleo had been taught, was the wind dragon. “-some saps are attempting to set up a community there. I don't know if they have any connection to the radicals, but it honestly doesn't matter. I've got some catching up to do with Dezel. Then I think I'll drop in on some of my radical buddies out here. Give them a good long look at what they're up against. When I come back, I want that place empty.” He smiled.

 

“And none of this 'take me at the letter of my word' stuff. I want everyone dead, not evacuated. Capisce?”

 

Mikleo swallowed and nodded. “I... understand what you want me to do.”

 

“And I recognize the verbal pussyfooting. You don't just understand what I want you to do, you _do_ it.” Slay stepped away from him. “Catch ya later.” And with a dark ripple through the air, he was gone.

 

Mikleo turned towards the town. There was nothing for it but to run. He had a day at the most, probably much less. There wasn't anything left he could accomplish.

 

Unless... he could... No... Well, maybe.

 

Really, desperate plans were all he had now. He might as well capitalize on them.

 

Trying to think clearly, he started towards the town.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

There weren't trees exactly, but there were scattered bushes on the margins of the ruins, and Mikleo used those for cover. From what he could tell, the ruins had only just been reclaimed. He didn't see any crops other than wild vegetables, and he didn't see evidence of herds being driven out to pasture. There weren't a lot of people making use of the ruins, about thirty adults and twenty children. They had shovels, one man had a scythe (made, Mikleo guessed, to destroy nothing more than crops). Three of the men had long knives. Scouting to the rear of the ruins, Mikleo drew a nervous breath of relief. They had livestock: three cows, fifteen goats and perhaps twenty sheep, penned or either tied to the remains of the village wall.

 

All right. He made his way to the front of the ruins. He straightened, squared his shoulders, and drew his blade.

 

As he strode towards them, Mikleo couldn't blame the stares the people gave him. Both his clothes and skin were still patchy with bloodstains, his brown hair, though short, disheveled. He came to a stop twenty paces from the gate. And had no clue where to begin.

 

“Hello,” he called out.

 

A crowd had assembled in the ruins, and the three armed men were moving to the forefront.

 

“My name is Mikleo. I am here to take over your village.”

 

Silence.

 

One of the knife-men stepped forward. “We don't have time for games, kiddo.”

 

“Neither do I,” Mikleo admitted. “So this is how it has to work: you either evacuate and leave the village to me, or...I slaughter you all.”

 

“You forgot option three,” the man said, withdrawing his knife. “This!” And without another word, he and his two compatriots rushed forward.

 

Mikleo sent one sprawling with a blast of energy from his sword, and by then, the other two were in striking range. He disarmed one with his blade swing, reversing the movement to club the other in the elbow, effectively breaking the man's arm. The disarmed one, the leader, fell back several paces, glancing at his friends.

 

Mikleo made his voice come coolly. “I want to let you live. But if you won't be helpful, I'll do what I have to do.” he turned to the village. “I have in myself the power to destroy you all.” he swung the blade up, hands shaking a moment, then down into the ground, channeling energy through it. The ruins hummed in response, causing the townspeople to glance around warily.

 

“I will give you a half hour,” Mikleo said.

 

“Either leave, or my blade will escort you out.” he couldn't help thinking that he was acting ridiculous, but he stuck his swordpoint in the ground and leaned on it, watching.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

They were out in twenty minutes. As the last of them disappeared over the horizon, Mikleo sighed with relief. He'd never thought he could bluff. If the people had fought back, he would've run, or allowed them to take him prisoner. Bluffs aside, he doubted he had the power to kill all of them - making the air vibrate had been just that, no prelude to a devastating attack. As for the will to kill any of them...

 

He ran towards the animal pens.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

_I laughed when she told me to take soap. I can't believe it._

Mikleo gazed at the small cake of soap in gratitude, rubbed it, then ran his sudsy fingers through his hair. The river was cold, and the flowing water felt heavenly. He watched it as it skimmed across him, carrying away the long trails of fresh blood. He dunked his head under the water and came up spluttering, trying to blow water out of his nose.

 

Somewhat satisfied with the state of his hair, he crept downstream to his clothes, which he'd weighted down with stones. Forcing his shirt out of the water, he frowned. There wasn't any getting those stains out. Sighing, he crawled onto the river bank. He would've liked to lie there and dry off, as he had lain near the streams in Elysia, but he doubted that would be prudent. Besides, the sun was setting, leeching away much of the warmth.

 

He was tying the damp laces of his shirt when he heard Slay's voice sing out, “Honey, I'm home!”

 

“Over here.” His voice shook.

 

He flicked his wet hair out of his face, trying to look unconcerned as Slay stepped over the rise and down to the bank.

 

“I've seen the ruins. Classic,” Slay said, watching him get to his feet. “How long did it take you to build the pyre?”

 

“Ages.” His arms were aching, not only from hacking down every brush he could find for kindling, but from hacking up...other things. Then dragging said things all over the town, spreading blood-stains liberally, then heaping everything into a pile. Muse had told him he was stronger than normal humans, but this had strained him to his limit.

 

“It's a nice touch, but I'd've been just as happy if you'd left everyone out to rot in the sun. It's just a jumble of bones now.” Slay clenched his fist and brought it to his heart. “I wanted to see the horror etched eternally on their faces.”

 

Mikleo slung his haversack over his shoulder, then the baldric across his chest. “I pulverized the bones all nicely. Doesn't that count for something?”

 

“Or stakes,” Slay was saying. “Tall wooden stakes with the corpses speared on top.” He thought a moment. “Set on fire.”

 

Mikleo bent to smooth his trouser leg, hiding his revulsion.

 

“Still, for a first try, it didn't totally blow monkey chunks.” As Mikleo gave him a perplexed frown, Slay took his wrist. “We're heading back now.”

 

Mikleo waited until they had rematerialized on the ramparts before speaking.

 

“Did you learn anything from Dezel?”

 

Slay gave him a contemptuous smile.

 

“Look, you're my minion, not my diary. The only things you need to know are what I want you to do. And what I want you to do is mind your own freakin' beeswax.”

 

“Yeah,” Mikleo said vaguely.

 

“Don't go thinking we're old chums,” Slay went on. “One slavishly devoted fan is bad enough. I don't need two.”

 

“Sure,” Mikleo said.

 

Abruptly, he turned and stalked away. Mikleo was sent sprawling.

 

“Oh...right,” Slay said, remembering to release his wrist.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

“Got some sun, did you?” Eguille asked when Mikleo next found his way to the firelit room. He gestured under his eyes and down his nose. “A bit burnt.”

 

Mikleo shrugged. “Where are the others?”

 

“Rosh's off amusing himself. While you were gone, we found Grimkin's body. Not sure what happened to him. Felice's taken the corpse, and I'd rather not know why. No sign of Mason for four days now. Oh, help yourself. Rosh just made them.”

 

Stomach rumbling, Mikleo picked up one of the eggrolls he offered and vanquished it in a single bite.

 

“What's the letter?”

 

“One of my messengers brought it this morning.” He smiled down at the parchment. “From an old friend. He has quite some news, if you're interested. Try the dipping sauce.” He tapped a saucer of pale green liquid toward Mikleo.

 

“What's the news?”

 

“Perhaps you've heard of the rebels rising in the south? I know from my informants that people have been agitating for some years now - decades, even - but it's really beginning to pick up speed. They've...let's see, two nights ago, they made effigies of the Lord of Calamity, burned them, and made the ash shaped like the Shepherd symbol before stepped on the ash. Ah, trust Lunarre not to leave out the good parts. He doesn't sound too hopeful though.”

 

Mikleo tried not to grimace at the tart sauce. “Is your friend part of this?”

 

“Goodness, no.” Eguille chuckled. “We're much too wise. He advises us both to lie low for the time being.”

 

“Sla - the Shepherd said he put in a personal appearance today,” Mikleo mused, taking another eggroll. “Let the radicals see what they've got to fight. Maybe he's trying to stop them through fear.”

 

“Maybe, by coming out into the open, he's hoping to inspire more people to fight against him,” Eguille countered. “A bigger battle. I'm nowhere near the Shepherd's age, but I know how hard it must be to stir up old blood.”

 

“Raising the stakes makes the game more fun.” Mikleo bit the eggroll in half. “I see.”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Quite unexpectedly, Slay came upon him when he was eating dessert one morning. He had gotten it from Eguille, then (feeling a bit as though he was using him) made a quick excuse to leave his company. He sat cross-legged on one of the balconies, his back to the railing, eating vanilla Soft Cream on a piece of toast. After a moment, without looking up, he realized Slay had appeared and was standing on the railing above him.

 

“Do your shoulders always hunch like that?” Slay asked. “Is it a reflex or do you not like good posture or something?”

 

Mikleo talked above the nervous pounding in his throat. “You're so...scary, you know. I just can't take the pressure.”

 

He kicked the back of Mikleo's head. He went flying, his skull splitting open on the stone floor. At least, that's what Mikleo expected him to do. What he actually did - he felt the air move as Slay did it - was draw his leg back, swing forward, and stop his foot less than an inch from Mikleo's neck.

 

“I don't see any flinching now,” he commented, then lightly stepped down onto the balcony. “What is that?”

 

Mikleo was still acknowledging the fact that Slay hadn't plastered him across the balcony.

 

“Toast.”

 

“No, the shit on it.”

 

He glanced down.

 

“Vanilla Soft Cream.”

 

Slay snorted and walked past him.

 

“I like it,” Mikleo said, rather lamely, and bit into it. His heart rate was slowly quieting.

 

“Great recommendation, that.” He stretched, his gauntlets flying out to either side for a moment, the swords fanned out. “I could use a pick-me-up. A nice robust stuff. Last person I ate was the king from Rolance and you wouldn't believe the aftertaste.”

 

Mikleo grimaced and concentrated on the taste of the Soft Cream. After a moment, he realized Slay was watching him moodily, his hands in his pockets. Mikleo stopped chewing, hoping there wasn't Soft Cream on his face.

 

“Why so committed to dying?” Slay asked after a moment. Mikleo swallowed, and before he could speak, Slay went on, “Don't give me the 'it's my grand holy quest' spiel. Nothing's keeping you here. At least, I know I'm not. It looks like we're never going to succeed in killing each other. And as for you being my minion...Shit.”

 

Slay turned away, thinking a moment, then turned back. “I know you destroyed all those refugees, but when I see that babyass face of yours, I don't always believe it.”

 

Mikleo reflexively touched his face, hoping it wouldn't betray him. He looked back at Slay and noticed again that he barely seemed older than Mikleo was, and almost as human. It was only an illusion. Slay'd taken the world two centuries ago. He'd torn Margaret apart. He realized Slay was waiting for an answer, so he shrugged.

 

“I can't help what I look like.” Slay rolled his eyes. “I guess the novelty of having me here is wearing off.”

 

“Don't beat yourself up over it,” Slay replied, covering his thoughtfulness with a smile. “When you're as kickass as me, the world's bound to bore you sooner or later.”

 

“Maybe if you-”

 

“Maybe if I _what_? Exploring ruins? Took up interpretive dance? Quilt-making?”

 

“You're the one who says he's bored. And...” he glanced around the balcony, the hard face of the castle. “I don't really blame you. All you're here to do is kill people.”

 

“You're saying I need a hobby?” Slay stared at him a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “I can see it now. Groovemaster Slaymus Maximus begins his world tour of Glenwood. Now promoting his new album 'I Ate the World and Got Diarrhea'.” He shook his head.

 

“So you're not bored?” Mikleo countered.

 

“I am not so pathetically bored that I need to take advice from a shit-eating maggot.”

 

Mikleo had been about to take another bite. He glanced down at his toast with vanilla Soft Cream.

 

“It's not shit.”

 

“Tell yourself that.”

 

Mikleo took another bite, waiting for him to stalk off. He didn't. When he looked up, Slay was watching him again. Mikleo glanced at him, then the toast, then him.

 

“If you're hungry, you can have the rest.”

 

The look he gave him was a masterpiece of incredulity. But what he said was, “Eeeew!”

 

The Lord of Calamity was saying “eeeew” to him.

 

“It's covered with your spit! No chance in hell.”

 

Business-like, Mikleo ripped away the piece that his lips had touched, then held out the pristine half.

 

Slay stared at the toast narrowly, as though it might explode the moment he let down his guard. Then he shrugged.

 

“Can't be worse than the Rolance dude.”

 

He took it and stared at it. Mikleo finished off his piece.

 

Slay glanced sidelong at him, then closed his fist over the toast. Both erupted in black flames. After a moment, the fire died away, and Slay dropped a pile of ash onto the floor. Mikleo stared, waiting for him to give an explanation, but he just walked away.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Whether or not Slay was bored, he didn't speak to Mikleo again for a week, then two weeks. Mikleo didn't even see him. He did keep Mikleo primed, sending him hellions to destroy at least once a day. Mikleo took to glancing over his shoulder routinely and tried not to sleep for longer than two hours at a time. When not fighting for his life (or recovering from his fights; his store of medicine was dwindling), he explored the castle. Apparently, the Shepherd hadn't bothered to rig most of the upper rooms, probably assuming that no one would ever get that high. He picked a secluded old bedroom as his own. The idea of sleeping on the ancient bed creeped him out, so he cleaned off an old fainting coach as well as he could and used that. He became familiar with a small section of the castle's many galleries and could usually find his way to the communal fireplace without mishap. Eguille was most often there, bringing treats from the outside world. Mikleo couldn't say he became used to them, Eguille, Rosh and Felice, but he at least learned what to expect from them: jocularity, silence and...Felice.

 

He was even wondering if Slay had gotten bored of him and entirely forgotten him when he woke up on the eighteenth morning. He stretched, his stomach bubbly with hunger. He lit the lamp Eguille had procured for him, then stood to leave the room.

 

A throat was cleared. Mikleo moved only his eyes.

 

A man raised himself from the behind the divan, his thin face lit by the lamp. Mikleo stared at him. He'd seen him before, but...

 

“I don't suppose you recognize me,” the man said softly while grinning. “And I don't blame you. I'd no desire to draw attention when Heldalf and his walking corpse crashed my home.”

 

Mikleo blinked. “You're that...Yes, you live in the forest by Marlind. We...ate your stew.”

 

“I hope you enjoyed it,” the man replied, his grin widened.

 

“What's your name?”

 

“Zaveid. And now...” He glanced over to the door. “If you listen carefully, I think I might be able to do more for you than just feed you stew, kiddo.”

 

* * *

 

 

_“Do you trust me, child?”_

 

_“Why wouldn't I?”_

 

_“...Your answer worries me.”_

 

* * *

Mikleo braced. He'd been raised by Muse, knowing the last Seraph had a plan for him. That hadn't bothered him until he'd come to human realm and seen the reality of killing the Shepherd. And Slay made plans for him soon after they met. Now it sounded like this stranger had plans as well.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Have you heard of the Vigilantes?”

 

The word _vigilante_ made Mikleo start, merely because it was so similar to the name that had long been on his mind.

 

Perhaps misreading his reaction, Zaveid added, “I don't know where the name comes from,” he waved his hand casually. “but it's what a large group of people in the south are calling themselves.”

 

“The people who are trying to fight - the Shepherd?” Mikleo stopped himself from saying Slay's name. He wasn't sure why.

 

“Some of them.” Zaveid glanced at the door, then moved around to the front of the divan, sitting cross-legged at his feet. “The day that we met, I confess that I didn't...obey Heldalf's orders precisely when he told me to leave.”

 

“You eavesdropped.” Mikleo studied his thin face. “I won't say I blame you.”

 

“It seemed apparent that you and he only worked together because of a common goal: killing the Lord of Calamity” He watched Mikleo. “And I recently got word from a small ruined settlement called Amalind.”

 

Mikleo frowned, not understanding. Zaveid continued, “A group of refugees had only just arrived when a strange, bloodied man compelled them to evacuate. He said his name was Mikleo.” He paused. “And I'd remembered I'd heard that name before. Only then, that Mikleo had seemed to want to oppose the Shepherd. I was bemused, until the refugees told me how he had spared their lives.”

 

Mikleo looked away.

 

“So then I wondered, is this mysterious warrior truly a minion of the Shepherd or only pretending to be one? Is he perhaps held captive by the Shepherd? Or trying to get close enough to kill him, as he said he wanted to?”

 

“So you came all the way west to find out?”

 

Zaveid opened his mouth as though to speak - then didn't. Then said while grinning, “I don't come entirely on my own behalf.”

 

Mikleo found himself bracing again.

 

“I think you'll be glad to know,” Zaveid said carefully, “that you have many more allies than Heldalf to choose.”

 

Mikleo stood, clasping his elbows. After a moment, he began to pace.

 

“Look - just say why you came.”

 

“I managed to get into Dame du lac Castle and find you,” Zaveid said, not exactly following his instructions. “If you like, I can get you out.”

 

“But only so I'll help these Vigilantes.”

 

Zaveid inclined his head. “I admit, I wouldn't be comfortable springing the Shepherd's minion unless I was sure he was on my side.”

 

Mikleo glanced over. “I know a way out already.” he thought he could remember it.

 

“Ah.” Zaveid glanced at the door. “Then the sooner I get away, the better. That is...if you don't want help killing the Shepherd.”

 

Mikleo stopped in his pacing, biting the inside of his mouth. Despite all his power, he hadn't succeeded... He remembered Mayvin's words: there weren't enough people in the world to destroy the dragons and their shepherd.

 

“I would need,” he said after a moment, “a lot of help. Like...thousands of people.”

 

“That's why it seemed prudent to bring you to the army. And we're recruiting more every day. Ever since the Shepherd made his most recent appearance, killed all those hostages... People have been wild to join.”

 

“That's what he wants, you know,” Mikleo said softly. For the first time, she saw uncertainty flicker across Zaveid's face. “He's in it for a joyride.”

 

Zaveid collected himself. “Then we should make it a bumpy one.”

 

Mikleo turned so Zaveid couldn't see and pressed his hand to his heart, where he no longer felt the artes' thrumming.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Mikleo wasn't entirely sure how to get to his exit from his bedroom, so he followed Zaveid's lead.

 

“You need to be careful,” Mikleo warned him. “There are traps. The Shepherd has a nasty habit of dropping hellions wherever I happen to be.”

 

“If it comes to hellions, I'll rely on you. I'm only good for support.”

 

Though he didn't voice it, Mikleo was relieved. A support was what he needed right now.

 

Mikleo's nerves were tight with anxiety, but neither trap nor snakes challenged them. Still, he couldn't help worrying that today was the day Slay would summon him, or - worse - appear from nowhere in front of them. But even his nerves couldn't remain tense indefinitely, and after an hour, they'd slackened from sheer tiredness. Until Zaveid stopped abruptly in front of him, his hand waving him to be cautious. Mikleo silently stepped abreast of him.

 

A black shape lay at the bottom of a staircase, exuding a rotten smell. Zaveid leaned forward, casting his lamp onto it. It was the remains of a human.

 

 _That must have been Mason,_ Mikleo thought. They sidestepped past him into the next hall.

 

“Saw the poor fellow on the way up,” Zaveid commented, lightly enough. “It was almost enough to make me turn around.”

 

“Come on,” Mikleo said, not lingering. “I don't want to be seen.”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

They made good time. Mikleo hadn't expected much from the tattooed man, but he had stamina. As they trekked east, away from Dame du lac and away from Hyland, Mikleo accumulated question after question, but held off from asking until that evening when Zaveid was soaking the salted meat he'd brought in his small cook pot.

 

“You said this-” by _this_ , Mikleo gestured to the two of them, then to expanse of plains around them “-wasn't all your own idea. Who sent you?”

 

“One of our leaders. Brad. I told him what I knew about you.”

 

“And you're desperate, so crazy plans are starting to look good.”

 

“Heh, I hope we're not desperate yet.” He reached for his spoon and stirred. “Brad also sent some other messengers to appeal to Heldalf for help. I don't know if his pride will let him, but he and the zombie Michael would certainly be assets.”

 

Mikleo suppressed a shudder. He and Michael had not parted well. He was aware again of the emptiness in his chest.

 

For all his questions, Mikleo couldn't say he learned a great deal about the Vigilantes - or about Zaveid himself - over the next ten days. As they traveled southeast, he began to see more signs of them: a burned effigy of the Shepherd symbol, a rough recruitment sign (“Head South” was the only direction it gave). The further they went from Hyland, the better the country looked. It wasn't what he could call lush, but grass grew freely and the ground yielded small plants and flowers, many growing among the ruins of cities, walls, the foundations of villages. They passed scattered communities, some of which they entered, Zaveid disappearing to speak with people. But he never let them linger.

 

Mikleo often glanced over his shoulder as they traveled, back toward Hyland. He couldn't begin to guess what Slay might do once he noticed Mikleo's absence. Catch up and kill him? Or play a waiting game, upping the stakes?

 

On the eleventh morning, they started out before dawn. In the half-light, Mikleo wasn't certain of his surroundings, but he smelled something - unusual. He lifted his head.

 

“What is that?” Zaveid glanced back. “That smell.”

 

“It's the ocean.” He started walking faster. “Our leaders are meeting in the Normins ruins.”

 

“Normins ...those are the Seraphim helpers, right? The little ones?”

 

“Yes. Even after the annhilation of the Seraphim, the Normins held out against the Shepherd for a long time, but twelve years ago, he destroyed their headquarter and grievously wounded their leader.”

 

Mikleo thought he saw Zaveid grimace. “His power is incredible, but he can't use it on himself. He's been dying ever since.”

 

“How do you know all this?” Mikleo's attempts to pry into Zaveid's personal history had all ended in failure, but he saw no harm in trying. “Marlind's so far away.”

 

He just smiled. Well, he'd infiltrated Slay's castle. Mikleo shouldn't be surprised he was adept at getting information.

 

When they were walking each with a hand shielding their right eyes, blocking the riotous sunrise, a thin figure appeared on the horizon, then dashed towards them.

 

Zaveid must have seen Mikleo reach for his blade, for he made a warding gesture before calling ahead, “What is it, Ian?”

 

A female, her blond hair tied in a ponytail but disheveled, her body covered with scars and bruises, slid to a stop in front of them.

 

“We've been watchin' for you, Zaveid. Brad sent me out ahead. Is that him?”

 

“Yes, but I'd like to get out of the open air as soon as possible.”

 

He glanced back in the direction of Hyland. It would not take Slay eleven days to reach the Normin ruins when he came. They followed Ian at a jog. Shortly, the wreckage of a large palace appeared to their right, half-submerged in the water. Mikleo glanced down at the swinging, foamy waves. He'd never seen an ocean before. The valley slumped abruptly down to form a bay. Nestled both in this and on the small cliffs were hundreds of tents and lean-tos. Mikleo swore under his breath. This, if anything, would draw the attention of Slay.

 

“I'll take you to Brad now,” Zaveid was saying, looking around abstractedly. Mikleo had no clue what distinguished the tent they stopped in front of from any other, but Zaveid showed no hesitation. “Brad?”

 

He heard a throat being cleared, then - “You're back? Excellent. Just a moment.”

 

Mikleo heard some rustling inside, then a large man pulled himself out of the tent, using a staff to steady himself. As if already knowing what to expect, he looked at Mikleo, not smiling, one eyebrow raised. After a moment, he realized his eyes were red-rimmed.

 

“He came then. Good.” He turned to Zaveid. “Find him somewhere to be.”

 

Zaveid moved to lead him away, but Mikleo frowned. “Wait-”

 

Brad's mouth tensed as he looked back at him.

 

Mikleo didn't know what he'd been about to say. _Would you give me a clear idea of what you want me to do?_ But that was obvious enough, they wanted him to fight. Maybe, after being rescued from Dame du lac Castle, he was just expecting a better welcome. He looked to the side, then back up, but by then, Brad was already walking away.

 

Mikleo stared blankly after him. “What did I do?”

 

Zaveid frowned at the man. “You let his family die.”

 

Before he could feel anything more than a bolt of shock, a Normin ran towards them.

 

“Zaveid! You're back! The Normin leader needs you, he's in a bad way!”

 

Zaveid set off at a run. Mikleo hesitated, then set off after him, the Normin close behind. Zaveid led them splashing into the surf, along a raised sandbar that led them into the ruined palace. Mikleo didn't honestly think this was any of his business, but after what he'd just said, he was not going to let Zaveid out of his sight.

 

A foot of water carpeted the blue marble hallway, the walls covered with barnacles. Mikleo ran after Zaveid, herring darting through the rooms, away from him. Never looking back, Zaveid led him and the mage to a small room inlaid with seashells. Though the Normin stepped inside, Mikleo lingered in the doorway, feeling the wavelets lap against his shins. The room was crowded with wiry, small creature, their hands and feet were round and fingerless. They stepped aside to let Zaveid through, and Mikleo got a clear view of a low, pearly shelf set in the wall. It was just below the level of the water, so the Normins leader looked almost as though he lay on the surface. His skin wasn't in bright color and paler than the others', oddly waxy, his body sunken, his ribs arching up. He lay motionless on the water, eyes closed over deep sockets. Water. It was said water had the strongest healing property. The Normin leader didn't stir until Zaveid had forced a medicine down his throat and chanted a wind spell over him for several minutes.

 

He tilted his head and, not opening his eyes, murmured, “Attak...let him in.”

 

“Phoenix?” One of the Normins knelt by his side, his voice shaking. “What is it you want?

 

“Let...him in.”

 

Several of the Normins glanced at each other. “Who?” Attak asked.

 

“Lord Zenrus.”

 

Another Normin touched Zaveid, his eyes wide. “He's hallucinating again.”

 

“His fever should be going down,” Zaveid clipped. “Just be patient.”

 

“Lord Zenrus...been so long... You told me you were going to fight the Shepherd, and I...” He jerked around, as if trying to roll onto his side. “...haven't seen you since.”

 

“Who is Zenrus?” Zaveid whispered. All the Normins but Attak exchanged looks.

 

The Normins leader drew a long breath. “...you're here.” Then he opened his eyes, a dull, red color, and looked directly at Mikleo. “But...oh, Lord Zenrus...”

 

Mikleo stepped back as every eye in the room flashed toward him.

 

“Lord Zenrus...” Phoenix's whisper sounded like a weary sob. “I see you now and... dead...How could you die?...You're - broken... What could kill the Elysia's pillar?”

 

Mikleo shook his head both at Normins leader and the others, unsure whether he should even speak.

 

“I heard...so long ago you died, but I didn't... you must have only hidden... But now...I see you in your...living coffin...” His eyelids fluttered down. “I...”

 

Zaveid gave Mikleo another hard look, then cast a quiet spell on the normin. “That should ease him sleep.”

 

“I don't know what we'd do if you weren't here,” one of the Normins murmured, staring hopelessly down at their leader.

 

“Excuse me,” Zaveid said, then grabbed Mikleo's arm and pulled him out of the chamber. “Are you really named Zenrus?”

 

“I - no, I have no clue what that was all about.”

 

“Lord Zaveid!” one of the Normins called. “Wait a moment.”

 

Zaveid glanced back at the chamber and sighed. “Go get yourself some breakfast. We'll talk later.” Before Mikleo could say anything, he'd gone back inside.

 

He waited in the palace for a few minutes, hoping he'd return, but he didn't. Mind bubbling with questions, he splashed out of the palace, up the sandbar, and back onto the beach. He stopped at the first campfire, which a woman crouched in front of.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

The woman turned around. Mikleo stepped back.

 

It was Rose.

 

 

“ _What was that? Such big tears from such a little baby! Who knew you could be so loud? Oh, sweetheart...There, there, stop crying. It's a good thing you don't cry often, it always make me feel guilty. But then...you haven't smiled at me yet either.”_

Rose straightened to her full height, her round eyes narrowing. Mikleo swallowed, throat dry.

 

“Don't try to apologize,” Rose said, voice quivering a moment. “You're not sorry.”

 

“I-”

 

“What? Are you sorry now that you've seen my little sister dead?”

 

“I didn't want-”

 

“Yes you did!” Rose shouted back, clenching her fists. “You didn't make one move to save them! 'I can't stop you' was all you said! Real great. What a hero.”

 

“I-” Mikleo's mouth worked wordlessly. He'd been prepared for Rose to cut across him again, and when the girl remained silent, Mikleo wasn't sure what she could say. “I - it would've been wrong to join the Shepherd.”

 

“Oh, funny! From what I've heard, that's _exactly_ what you've been doing!”

 

Mikleo bowed his head.

 

“Say something! You must've had a damn good reason.”

 

Mikleo closed his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” Rose said, as if Mikleo had spoken. “Sure. Letting my family die was the right thing to do. It's all part of some grand scheme.” She shifted her weight and kicked sand up into Mikleo's face, then turned and ran.

 

Mikleo pressed his knuckles between his eyes, beating back the need to cry.

 

Zaveid found him standing there. He wasn't sure how much time had passed.

 

“I thought I told you to eat. Come along.” Once he'd set up his tent and cookfire and begun making porridge, he returned his attention to Mikleo. “So, what do you want to discuss first, Brad or Phoenix?”

 

Mikleo let his spoon drift in the porridge. “Brad is Rose's father, isn't he?” he felt Zaveid look sharply up. “They... Why does Brad want me fighting on his side?”

 

“Because he's strong and practical.” Zaveid reached into his pocket and sprinkled some herb over his oatmeal. “But that doesn't mean you'll earn his forgiveness.”

 

“Right,” he said dully. “So then, the Normins leader?”

 

Zaveid stroked his chin, which he hadn't shaved in two days.

 

“Phoenix's hundreds of years old, and he's met many people in his time. He said this Zenrus fought the Shepherd. That places him within the last two hundred years.”

 

“Wait,” Mikleo said suddenly, “the Shepherd's only been here for two centuries. But someone must have purified the Malevolence before that.” he looked over at Zaveid. “Who?”

 

The tattooed man raised his eyebrows. “You'd know as much as I do.” And slightly, just slightly, he cocked his head. “We come from the same world, don't we?”

 

Mikleo looked away much too quickly.

 

“It was said,” Zaveid mentioned after a long moment, “that Alisha the Knight Queen knew the true names of the Seraphim.” He tapped his chin. “and also, Georg Heldalf the First.”

 

“Heldalf,” Mikleo whispered. “Damn.”

 

“Of course, many people have challenged the Shepherd,” Zaveid continued, as if not hearing, “so that doesn't really narrow it down. If the Normin leader could only remain lucid, we could just ask who Zenrus was.”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

After breakfast, as Mikleo was crouched on the shore, beginning to realize that he couldn't wash his face with seawater, Zaveid came to his side.

 

“Brad wants you.”

 

Mikleo's movements were oddly jerky as he got to her feet and followed Zaveid. Brad's small tent had been converted into a rough pavilion, the tent canvas raised on tall poles. Brad sat beneath, talking to several humans, a female hodded woman and a big burly man. Rose sat next to him, not in the circle but obviously listening. Her eyes sharpened when she saw Mikleo.

 

“The earth dragon's definitely coming,” the hodded woman was saying. “She'll be here in two days, tomorrow night maybe. We can't just sit here.”

 

“This is what we want,” Brad countered. “How are we going to kill the Shepherd if she isn't drawn here? The earth dragon will be our bait.”

 

“He came on his own last time,” the big man rumbled. “I don't trust that.”

 

Brad, glancing over, saw Mikleo and Zaveid, but he only gave a short nod before speaking again. “I think Ben's defense plan will serve us well. We're already moving everyone up to the cliffs and-”

 

“Still,” one of the humans said, “there's nowhere we can retreat.”

 

“We're not here to retreat,” another man, blond and covered with burn scars, said.

 

“What about this secret weapon?” the hodded woman said. “When is he - oh.” She glanced up at Mikleo.

 

“Oh.”

 

Mikleo felt his nerves prickle. Brad tightened his jaw for a moment.

 

“I suppose now is the best time to introduce our new recruit.”

 

Mikleo swallowed. “...Hi.”

 

The scarred man swung to his feet and sauntered over, presenting his hand.

 

“Welcome to the party. I hear you're called Mikleo.” he nodded. “The name's Lucas. From what I hear, you've been giving the Shepherd a bit of trouble.”

 

“And most importantly,” the big man broke in, “that you can't die.” he thought the look he gave Mikleo was skeptical.

 

Mikleo's breath caught in his throat. He looked at the hodded woman, then Lucas, then Brad. Then Rose. Her arms were tightly crossed, and she raised an eyebrow when their gazes touched. _That's the only reason you're here,_ Mikleo could imagine Rose saying. _Because you can't freakin' die._

 

He had to tell them.

 

“Just in time too,” Lucas was saying. “You're going to be our spearhead in this. Do you want to fight the dragon or make a break for the Shepherd when he comes?”

 

“Uh - listen.”

 

“What?” From Brad, that single word came like a slap. He grimaced, perhaps at himself, and his voice came more reasonably. “Is there a problem?”

 

“I...” Even though he wasn't looking, he could feel Rose's stare on the side of his face, like the heat from a fire. _I can die now. I haven't killed him. I can't give you any hope. But I did manage to get your family killed._

 

“Look,” he said after a long moment, “you can't...build your attack plan around me.”

 

Lucas crossed his arms and the big burly man hmphed, but Mikleo went on.

 

“I...my only mission is to take the Shepherd down, and I'm - running out of time.

 

The hodded woman glanced nervously at Brad. “So if you want to factor that into your plan, good, but...I can't really...help...”

 

Brad gave a loud sigh. Mikleo didn't wait to see the others' reactions. He turned and began to walk away. He heard Brad say, “Mayvin's due to arrive soon. I want you to meet him, Zaveid. It looks like the researcher is our last hope now.”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Mikleo was scouting around the perimeter of the camp, trying to find a way of being helpful without drawing attention to himself. The camp was systematically losing its shape as the Vigilantes moved their equipment away from the shore, onto the cliffs. Mikleo had just decided he'd pick the next person he saw and ask if he could help them when something wet and cold was jammed into the crook of his elbow.

 

He jumped and whirled. The dog yelped and hopped back, crouching low to the ground. After a moment, it tilted its long ears back and wagged its tail slowly. It was a pretty big grayish dog. Mikleo froze on the spot.

 

“Sockum!” a male voice shouted. “Come here - no, don't give the stranger puppy eyes! You _will_ help me carry the astrolabes!”

 

Sockum whined and muttered as a masked male man hurried over, a gold birdcage stuffed with books under his arm.

 

“Now don't give me that. I don't have any sympathy for you.” Sockum whined and rolled onto his back, howling piteously. “You do _not_ have a stomachache!”

 

Mikleo put his hand on the man's arm. Carefully avoiding the dog. “I'll help you.”

 

The masked man turned towards him. “Oh? Oh - really? _Really?_ ”

 

“Sure. I don't have anything else to do.”

 

The man waggled his finger at Sockum. “You see that, you little fink? Be grateful now, but you won't always get bailed out like this!”

 

He headed off in the direction of a large wagon, piled high with books, trunks, and a roughly-painted chair. After a moment, Sockum barked and bounded after them.

 

“My name's Odie,” the man said. He gestured to the wagon. “We brought this down, but I don't think we can get it back up again.” He sighed deeply. “I'm afraid I'll have to leave some of it behind. But still, I'm salvaging what I can. Oh good, it looks like Vangogh's already carrying up the tea set.”

 

For the next two hours, Mikleo helped the man move his stuff from the wagon to his relocated tent on the cliffside. Vangogh proved to be a rustic man who was more adept at keeping the dogs - Sockum and his partner Rockum - in line. Mikleo a little gratefull at him for keeping the two-very-big dogs away from him.

 

By lunch they were done. Vangogh grilled vegetables over the new cook fire. The dogs flopped down and allowed Odie to lean back against them and Mikleo sat across him. As far as he could without looking rude.

 

Odie removed his mask and mopped his forehead with his long sleeve. “Whew! A bit...time-consuming. But no task is too great for the mighty Odie! No, and certainly not redecorating!”

 

“What is all this stuff?” Mikleo asked, gesturing back to the tent, which had been crammed full of Odie's paraphernalia.

 

“Why...” His long fingers gestured elegantly. “It's my life. My studies. Haven't you heard of me?”

 

“Um, well...”

 

“You come from far away,” Odie said determinedly. “ _Very_ far away.” Mikleo nodded. “Good. Well then, I shall enlighten you. I am the son of a great and illustrious line of generals dating back more than two centuries.”

 

He accepted the vegetables Vangogh passed him, wrapping them in thick bread. “By our family archivement in military, by our spilled blood, we have divined the secrets of Rolance and Hyland, mainly in Rolance, the interwoven threads of the universe, the great panoply of-”

 

Mikleo made up his own sandwich. “Family of generals. So you're like the Heldalfs that way?”

 

“ _Like_ the Heldalfs?” Odie's eyes became perfect ovals. “We _are_ the Heldalfs!”

 

Mikleo sat up slightly, making Sockum whuffle. “Oh, you're a Heldalf?”

 

“Well - er - don't carry the name, but - but I am of that illustrious ilk.” He took a grand bite of sandwich.

 

“And you've studied the lore?”

 

“Well, er...some of it is...kept, um, aloof.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Mikleo slumped back with disappointment and nibbled him sandwich. Well, that explain the lion mask.

 

“Per-perhaps I can still be of help.” He examined him. “ _Are_ you in need of help?”

 

“Someone told me that Alisha the Knight Queen knew a lot about the world's Seraphim. I just...” he wasn't quite sure how this would be helpful. But Slay had clearly said he'd only been doing his world-conquering for two centuries. So how had the purifying cycle functioned before that?

 

Odie fingered his lower lip. “It's true enough. And she learned most of it from her bestfrien who was also a Seraph. Also, It's well-known that she killed a Shepherd.”

 

Mikleo jerked upright, making Sockum yelp. “Wait - was that two hundred years ago?”

 

“It would have to be. That's when Queen Alisha was alive.”

 

“Did - what was the Shepherd's name?”

 

Odie opened his mouth to answer - then frowned and closed it. He tapped his chin for a long moment, then wordlessly stood and vanished inside his cluttered tent. The tent's ropes strained as he rummaged around, and once it nearly toppled over, but eventually he wedged himself back out, a leather scroll-case in his hand. He checked its tag before sitting down next to her again.

 

“Let's see...this might be helpful.”

 

He unscrewed the top and withdrew the scroll. Mikleo was met by a ream of words he couldn't read. Below was a roughly-drawn diagram, showing two globes, one dark, one light. Both were surrounded by a complex myriad of starlike objects. Each globe had an object inside it: the white one had the symbol of the Shepherd, the black one had the symbol of the Lord of Calamity.

 

“Okay,” Mikleo said after a moment. “The Lord of Calamity-” he pointed to the black globe “-and the Shepherd” he pointed to the white.

 

“It's a very old dialect,” Odie muttered.

 

“Heldalf has - I mean, I don't even have the original. This was copied out by one of my great-great aunts. Let's see... _Maotelus parted the lake of darkness. With his blade, he cut his hand, with his blood he filled the basin of light. In the basin he slept and his sleep was darkness, in darkness he dreamed and from his breath, Musiphe, Amenoch, Hyanoa and Eumacia..._ No, this isn't right. Let's see... No, this part is the romance of Lady Muse and Lord Michael...”

 

Mikleo jumped at that but didn't interrupt.

 

“ _And from their anger the worlds were sundered_...Ah, yes, here. _In 158, the seeress Grimoire, beloved of Seraphim, was dying of_... Damn, it's very hard to read here. Ah, yes... _blood poisoning. In her agony, she was visited by the Shepherd and the Lord of Elysia. She asked if she could know their names, so that when her soul had to travel, she would know to whom to call out. Only because of her..._ What's that phrase? Oh... _great dedication to the Seraphim did they comply. The Lord of Elysia gave her name as Zenrus_ -”

 

“Zenrus?” Mikleo broke in.

 

Odie looked startled and glanced at the text again. “Yes, that's what it says.”

 

Mikleo blinked. “That's very...” he shook himself. “I'm sorry, go on.”

 

“ _The Lord of Elysia gave her name as Zenrus, and the Shepherd bade Deianira call on the name of...of...Sorority.”_

 

“Sorority?”

 

“No, wait, I read it wrong. Ugh, this is hard to read. _Sih_ \- _soh_ \- Hm, maybe Soverity?”

 

“Soverity?” Mikleo repeated, voice rising.

 

“No, wait - oh! Silly me, it's Sorey.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _You're leaving tomorrow. How do you feel?”_

 

“ _A bit...well. I don't know.”_

 

“ _It's all right if you're nervous.”_

 

“ _Maybe. I'd rather be calm. Or at least look calm.”_

 

“ _You do.”_

 

“ _I keep reminding myself that you've told me everything I need to know.”_

 

* * *

Mikleo leaned forward, elbows on knees. He couldn't say the name surprised him, but hearing it confirmed his fears.

 

“Was that helpful?” Odie asked brightly.

 

He nodded. Helpful. Yes. Muse hadn't been lying - Sorey was the Shepherd, and he was dead. That also meant that Muse hadn't been lying about his mission. So how was he supposed to kill Sorey? Why was he supposed to kill him? Who was Slay?

 

“Why did Queen Alisha kill the untainted Shepherd? In her era, the Shepherd is pure and untainted, right? Slay is the only one who's taken both the Shepherd and Lord of Calamity's title.”

 

“There are theories.” Odie was rolling up the scroll.

 

“Her best friend, Lord Mikleo, died suddenly. Several theories also poped out about his cause of death. She might've been in for revenge.” He stopped rolling. “Did you say your name was Mikleo?”

 

“Strange coincidences,” was all Mikleo could say.

 

He didn't want to start trying to figure out that new twist, concentrating instead on the haphazard scraps of information he'd gathered. “And then, the next Shepherd is tainted and gained the title Lord of Calamity- Slay, right? Slay killed the Knight Queen. That's the only logical answer. But - wait, Phoenix said Zenrus went to fight the Shepherd. But...wouldn't that have to be later? Or did the Queen Alisha fight together with Zenrus against Slay? But the time frame-”

 

“Um?” said Odie.

 

“Sorry.” he used two fingers to knead his forehead, then tried to smile at the man. “You've been really helpful. Thanks.”

 

“Oh - er - of course. Thank you for the-” He gestured vaguely at the tent.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Mikleo wasn't hiding, exactly, but he deliberately volunteered to help a family repair one of their wagons. He was lying under it, making sure the new axle fit. It was a testament to Zaveid's powers of observation that the tattoed man found him.

 

“What?” Mikleo asked, scootching out from under reluctantly. “Brad can't want to talk to me?”

 

“It isn't him,” Zaveid said. “It's the Normins leader. He's awake, and he keeps asking for Lord Zenrus.”

 

“I've found out who this Zenrus might be. Maybe.” As they made their way down a narrow cliff-path, he told Zaveid what he had learned from Odie's scroll. “But...it doesn't make sense.”

 

“I think it might not be wise to trust Phoenix's word,” said after a moment. “At times, his...sickness strains his mind almost to breaking.”

 

It was closing in on evening, and the light in the Normin Palace was gray-blue. The leader's chamber was no longer crammed full, but his two guards gave Mikleo nervous looks. Zaveid knelt at the leader's side and Mikleo followed his example.

 

Phoenix opened his eyes, resting them immediately on Mikleo. “He's dead.”

 

Mikleo hesitated. “Pardon?”

 

Phoenix reached out, his cold hand touching Mikleo's forehrad, his circlet. “He died in you. He died...long ago, but now he's truly gone.”

 

When Mikleo said nothing, Phoenix shifted, as though to raise himself. One of his guards, Attak crouched down and put his hands on Phoenix's shoulders.

 

“My leader, don't strain yourself.”

 

Phoenix settled back down, blinking. Mikleo realized that his eyes, though half-covered by heavy lids, were quite clear.

 

“You don't understand me, child. Did you know what you were carrying?” he glanced around. “Leave us.”

 

“What?” Attak expostulated. “Phoenix, we can't leave you with this - this stranger!”

 

Phoenix's eyes sharpened a moment. “You have never failed me before, Attak, Priventi. Go.” They went, even Zaveid. The light played across the water like lines on a map.

 

Phoenix gazed at Mikleo. “I...may be dying, but I remember my own artes. And it tells me you bore an artes and Crystal.”

 

“I - yes.”

 

Phoenix closed his eyes - for a second, Mikleo thought he was falling asleep - then he opened them.

 

“It was my friend. Lord Zenrus. The Crystal was his soul.”

 

Mikleo looked down at his hands, as if expecting to see the shards of the Crystal.

 

“The - Lord of Elysia? My Crystal?”

 

Phoenix had closed his eyes again and not reopened them. “He'd be happy to return to the cycle, if only...Lord Sorey...hadn't been...”

 

“Your Highness?”

 

The Normin didn't answer. For the first time, Mikleo heard his breathing deeply.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

“Watch out! Don't worry, I'll get it.” Mikleo trotted down the cliff path several paces, catching the wayward brush. He walked back up, handing it to the pregnant woman.

 

“Oh, thank you,” she said breathlessly, returning the brush to the basket on her arm, then drawing a strand of long blonde hair out her face. “I'm much obliged.”

 

“I'll carry that, if you'd like,” Mikleo offered, simultaneously glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of Brad's inner circle was in sight. He'd almost run into the big burly man - he'd heard him being called Grunzford - a few minutes ago and had practically sprinted to get away.

 

“Why, thankya kindly.” The woman passed the basket over and lifted her skirt free of her ankles. “Just come this way. You with a camp yet? I'll cook you up a nice dinner for bein' so helpful.”

 

“Thanks.” he glanced over his shoulder again and followed the nice woman to her tent, responding her casual questions.

 

He seemed to be following pretty much everyone lately, but he couldn't think of anything else to do. Hopefully, one way or another, Slay would come to him. And then he'd either be dying, or... No. Chances were good he'd be dying.

 

“Just set that down there. Wonderful. You said your name's Mikleo? I'm Sirel. Have a seat. No, I'm quite all right. I may look a bit like a melon these days, but I can still move, can't I?” Sirel had stirred her cook fire, allowed Mikleo to feed it some dry twigs to rekindle the blaze, then slung a pot over it. She then proceeded to fill the pot from objects from a large satchel: dried apple slices, sourwort leaves, an egg (she crumbled the shell in, then frowned and picked the pieces out), chives and bits of brown bread. Mikleo frowned but tried to remain philosophical. Maybe it was local cuisine.

 

“Hey, Sis!” Sirel and Mikleo turned to see Ian, the fleet-footed woman, walking towards them. She gave Mikleo a cursory look. “Ah, you...er, invited a guest?”

 

“Of course,” Sirel replied, adding a dried onion to the pot. “You know how I love cookin' for company.”

 

“M-maybe you should leave the cookin' to me.” Ian bent over the pot, sniffed, then drew back, her eyes watering. “Or even Lucas. You know, when we were recruitin' in the mountains, we got really good at fixin' food for ourselves-”

 

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” She pulled a fish head from her pocket and added it. “You soldiers are tired from movin' things around all day. It's the least I can do. Is Zaveid comin' to dinner?”

 

“Nah.” Ian settled herself down with a resigned glance at the pot. “He's gone to meet up with Mayvin.”

 

“Yeah, we've had to make some new plans.” Not turning, Mikleo heard Lucas's voice approaching. “Our 'secret weapon' backed out on us like a dog with its tail between its legs, so we've had to - oh.”

 

Mikleo made himself turn around and look at him. He wasn't sure what sort of expression was on his face. He hoped there wasn't any. Lucas stared down at him a moment, grimaced, then shrugged and sat down on the other side of the fire.

 

“Anyway, yeah, we've been reshuffling the plan. We're hoping Mayvin's come close to figuring out the earth dragon's weakness.”

 

“Why does it have to have a weakness?” Ian asked, much in the tone of someone who'd asked this many time already.

 

“I mean, it looks like a freakish killin' monster, it acts like a freakish killin' monster, and it kills like a freakish killin' monster. Isn't that all there is to it?”

 

“Everything has a weakness. Even freakish killing monsters.” As if suddenly reminded of something, Lucas frowned and peered into the pot.

 

“It's almost ready.” Sirel ruffled his hair, then bent and kissed his forehead. “I knew everyone would be tired, so I made plenty. And, oh look, more company!”

 

Mikleo turned to see two small shapes blaze by, a high pitched male voice rapidly saying, “I wish we could stop by, yes, mmhm, but Pinot and I need to, uh, we need to uh, we need to, uh, fix the, the, um, the, Odie, we need to fix Odie, I mean he's broken his arm, um, I mean, I bet he's broken his arm, he's so clumsy, he's bound to break his arm sooner or later, so right, bye, we'll stay and eat next time but now we need to get Odie fixed.”

 

Sirel sighed. “What a shame we can't just sit down and relax of an evenin'.”

 

Mikleo sat silent while the others talked, trying to look calm and entirely unnoticeable. He was relieved when two people stepped up to the fire, taking any attention entirely off him.

 

“You are Lucas?” the knight asked, his dark armor gleaming dully in the twilight.

 

“Afraid so.” Lucas nodded, then gestured to the newcomers to sit. “Do you have news?”

 

They accepted the invitation. The knight was a stern, middle-aged man, his thin black hair pulled back. The other seemed to be his squire, delicate-featured with face held a little bit resemblance to the knight. He stared at Mikleo with interest. No, Mikleo realized after a moment. He stared at his chest with interest.

 

“I am Sergei, and this is my son Boris.”

 

“Ah,” Lucas said. “You're the Sergei who leads the Vigilantes in the north? Excellent. We need everyone here.”

 

While they entered a long discussion about the strategy against the earth dragon, Mikleo turned to watch the nearby camps. People had clumped into small groups like theirs, talking in low voices. Others kept glancing to the northwest, the direction from which the dragon would come. After less than a minute, he could feel the intensity of someone's stare on the back of his neck. He turned around, meeting the large, long-lashed blue eyes of Boris. He'd sat next to Mikleo.

 

“Do you want something?”

 

“I'm fine,” Boris answered, looking at his chest again. “Are you a man or a woman?”

 

“I'm a man.”

 

“Really,” the boy hmmed in disbelief. Mikleo raised his eyebrows but the shrugged it iff before sighed, brought up his knee and leaned his forehead against it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _I'm going to miss you when I go.”_

 

“ _Maybe for a while. But you'll see so many strange new things, I doubt you'll want to leave.”_

 

* * *

When Mikleo awoke, his blanket was wet with dew, droplets glistening in the grass. He rolled over and realized that - yet again - Boris had snuggled up against him during the night. This time, he'd even thrown his arm across Mikleo's waist. That had happened twice already. The first time, he had given the kid the benefit of the doubt and assumed he'd simply rolled over in his sleep. He'd woken him, and he'd laughed if off, meekly returning to his own blanket. The second time, he'd had his suspicions. He'd woken him again and mentioned that he shouldn't move around in his sleep so much. Maybe he should tell his father...?

 

So this time, he sat up, jerked his blanket out from under the kid, and looked to see if Sergei was still asleep. He, the knights and Ian had all camped outside of Lucas and Sirel's tent, and while Ian was still in place, curled into a fetal position, he saw no sign of Sergei. Still, he'd left his son. That argued he'd be coming back.

 

He glanced again at Boris, rolled his eyes, then stood and walked away. Sergei could sort his own son out. Mikleo had suddenly realized that he didn't want to stick around for breakfast. His stomach was still recovering from the shock of dinner.

 

He went down to the shore, thinking he'd have another hopeless try at washing his face with saltwater. But as he moved down slope, he saw the shore was crowded by several hundred dark shapes - the Normins. After a moment, they began to sing, a long, wordless wail.

 

Word quickly passed throughout the camp, and all day the Normins continued their lament for Phoenix. Some people speculated what they had done with his body: buried it in the night, weighted it down with stones and cast it into the sea, secluded it in one of the caves along the shore. Around noon, he saw Attak conferring with Sergei over battle plans, but most of the Normins remained at the shore.

 

The army was trying - at the last moments - to bolster its defenses against the coming dragon, so Mikleo spent the day helping to dig pits that might catch one of her hooves. Bombs and artes runes lay scattered across the fields leading up to the cliffs. People scouted overhead. They said they could see the earth dragon's shape on the horizon. Mikleo tried to breathe steadily above the churning in his stomach. He was washing his face in a pail of water - it might be the last time he washed his face - when he heard a female voice.

 

“Have you seen my sister? She's got blonde ash hair and - oh. Hey.”

 

Maltran looked down at him, disheveled but no less haughty. Mikleo stood, pulling his hair out of his face.

 

“I heard your father was coming. You're going to fight too?” he left the question unspoken: _Does your father have any clue how to save us?_

 

“Yeah.” Maltran put her hand on her hip, looking almost bored. “So, have you seen Alisha?” When Mikleo shook his head, the other woman swore. “What's her game?”

 

“Do you think she's lost?”

 

Maltran gave a short, humorless laugh. “She's not lost. She's up to something.”

 

She made a small gesture. “She didn't leave with us and Zaveid last night. Said she wanted to help the family we were staying with and catch up to us later. She never was any good at lying, but we were in such a hurry to get here...”

 

She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “Maybe it's for the best she's not in this camp.” Maltran glanced at Mikleo, and for the first time her eyes were wide with worry. “I don't want her to die, you know?”

\--------------------------------------------------

 

It was a moonless night, but the blazes of the earth dragon's claws threw wild shafts of light across the darkness. Much to his displeasure, Mikleo found himself holding back from the assault. Brad and his leaders hadn't given him a unit to fight in. He wanted to think that was because they knew he had to save his blade for the Shepherd and not as a deliberate insult. He squinted, trying to make sense of the chaos of light and shadows, flashing weapons, spells, and dragon's metal claws and breath. He kept telling himself that he couldn't simply rush the dragon and attack her. Not anymore. If he did that, he'd never have a chance at Slay.

 

“Come on!” he heard Lucas shout, somewhere. “Let's show this glorified lizard what we're made of!”

 

A flock of archer and gunner swept low over, shooting volleys of bullets at the dragon. Mikleo paced. He'd been positioned with a group of other fighters to guard the pyremages. The continual heat from their artes seemed to burn through the back of his neck. Sweat trickled down. Even though the dragon was nowhere near him, he had his blade drawn.

 

He already knew they were losing.

 

“I'm gonna snap your neck!” he heard Rose yell.

 

Mikleo remembered Margaret telling him how his great grandmother had faced down a dragon. Had she lived? Mikleo raised his eyes, scanning the sky. They weren't hurting the dragon. This wouldn't draw Slay.

 

“Fall back, fell beast!” Odie thundered. “The might of Odie the Magnificent shall smite you!”

 

The earth dragon would just kill them. He felt something uncoiling in his heart, striking up his chest. Anger. He shook his head. But - why hadn't Muse seen this coming? Why hadn't she warned him?

 

“Edna!” he heard a woman scream. “Edna!”

 

In the tumult, Mikleo could still see the dragon tense - then rake her claws across the battlefield. Fighters buried under the rubles.

 

“Edna!”

 

“Get back, all you maggots!” the dragon roared. “Or die!”

 

“No!”

 

“What the hell?” came Lucas's voice.

 

A woman screamed. It was Maltran. By then, Mikleo was running forward. By now, there were too many people shouting and screaming for Mikleo to make out individuals. The fighters had stopped in their tracks, staring at the dragon. Mikleo darted between them. One man tried to hold him back with a “Watch out!” but he pulled free of him.

 

“I told you this isn't the way it has to be! If you hate him so much, why are you doing this?”

 

Mikleo blinked, needing to stare for several moments before he really believed what he was seeing.

 

Charred bodies lay smoldering on the field in front of the earth dragon, several more probably under the massive mounds around her, though many fighters led by Lucas and Sergei had rushed in to fill the gap. Sergei was holding onto Maltran's wrists, restraining her. A spear lay at her feet, and she tried to lunge forward, her eyes wide with terror.

 

The earth dragon took one step back, then another, clenching and unclenching her long claws. Her shoulders were hunched.

 

Between the dragon and the fighters stood a thin blonde girl, her hands on her hips.

 

“Did you see that?” She wasn't shouting, but her voice was quite firm. “You almost killed me.”

 

“Alisha!” Maltran gasped.

 

Lucas took a step towards Alisha, then hesitated, as if unsure.

 

The earth dragon growled a moment before speaking. “You shouldn't have rushed into the battle, stupid girl.”

 

“How else was I supposed to stop you?” Even at this distance, Mikleo could see her chin jutting out. “You wouldn't listen to me before, you - you-”

 

“...blockhead?” The earth dragon supplied, hunching her shoulders even more. Maybe it was a trick of light but he thought she's grinning.

 

“Where is she? Where-” Lucas caught Mayvin as he ran forward. “Alisha! What are you - Get away from it!”

 

“Hold on!” Lucas rasped, staring at the dragon's face.

 

Alisha glanced to the side, but kept her attention on the dragon.

 

“You told me you were tired of doing this. You said you hated the Shepherd. Yes, you _did_. So what are you doing this for?”

 

“When did - when?” Mayvin spluttered.

 

Smoke boiled out of the earth dragon's mouth as she clenched her teeth. “You don't underst-”

 

“I think I understand pretty well.”

 

She crossed her arms. “Father always used to tell me about how my name came from the Knight Queen and about bravery and about the fearsome dragon Edna and about how I must never go near her. But Father also told me that no one-” she pointed up at her “- _no one_ is created evil! Not even a dragon. And if you don't want to be the Shepherd's slave, I don't see why you should be!”

 

Edna half groaned, half growled. “Lisa-”

 

“It called her Lisa,” Mayvin spluttered.

 

“You've always been so nice to me,” Alisha went on. “I didn't mind sneaking out on my father because you were so interesting to talk to. You remember when I thought Maltran was going to marry that merchant and leave me all alone? You were so kind to me and told me not to worry...in your own way.” she smiled as if reminiscing a very found memory.

 

Mayvin's spluttering was now wordless. Maltran strained away from Sergei, but he wouldn't release her.

 

“And then when the awful Heldalf was going to attack you, I sneaked out to warn you. I didn't get any sleep that night. I thought you were a good person. But now-” she gestured around the battlefield. “I see that - you were - were a liar!”

 

Edna lexed her claws, back arching - then the flying giant boulders retracted back to the ground. Darkness fell over the night, lit only by Edna's flaming eyes. They were lowering - the dragon was crouching. Mikleo saw the glint of raised weapons, but no one struck.

 

“Listen, stupid girl...”

 

Even though Edna was probably trying to speak quietly, her voice rumbled over the crowd.

 

“I'm a dragon. This is what I was made to do. I don't...have any other purpose.”

 

“Oh, but you do!” Alisha trotted forward, illuminated. Edna had lowered her head as far as she could get to speak to her eye-to-eye, and she put both of her hands on Edna's nose. “So what if the blockheads who made you wanted you to hurt people? You don't have to.”

 

Edna's eyes narrowed. “A dragon who doesn't hurt people?” she waited a bit. “What else am I supposed to do?”

 

Alisha drew back and crossed her arms and then uncrossed her arms. “Well, what would you like to do? I've told you before, I think you'd make a wonderful guardian for Marlind. Everyone would really appreciate it, and-”

 

Alisha drew back and screamed as a long, fiery giant sword appeared in the darkness, lashing across Edna. The dragon staggered upright, roaring, claws blasting out.

 

There was a red haze high in the night, Slay at its center.

 

“I don't believe this. Edna - _Edna_ \- getting talked around by a little girl. C'mon, pussycat, get a grip.”

 

Slay raised his hand, and the fiery sword reappeared, beating across the dragon.

 

Alisha drew herself up. “I'm not afraid, you, you - coward!”

 

“I'll get to you in a minute,” Slay promised. The sword vanished. “So, Edna, got anything to say for yourself?”

 

Edna was growling, firelight glazing her metal hide red. “Why should I serve you?”

 

“Hm, good question. Very existentialist. I've got a quick answer.”

 

Slay's long fiery sword appeared in his hands, and he shot towards the dragon. Fire blazed from Edna. Mikleo had to shield his eyes from the light.

 

Edna screamed - not roared - a terrible, grating scream. Mikleo lowered his arm to see the dragon falling, a wide gash ripped down her side, oozing molten blood. Edna collapsed onto her side, not moving.

 

Slay was laughing, sweeping away from the dragon's form to just above ground level, in easy range of the Vigilantes' weapons. Alisha had fallen to her knees, her eyes wide and aghast.

 

“Aw, I never thought I'd see anyone cry for Edna,” Slay said.

 

Alisha narrowed her eyes. “You - I'm not afraid-”

 

“Then you're stu-” But Slay caught sight of Mikleo then, running towards him, blade raised.

 

He waited for Mikleo to get in range, then easily parried the attack, wind swords glittering.

 

“Well, it's my little cockroach, here to kill Public Enemy Number One. How could you backstab me, darling? I thought we had something special!”

 

Mikleo raised his blade again. He wasn't going to try to talk, he was just going to-

 

“Damn you.” he heard a low voice behind him. “Get out of the way.”

 

He didn't dare turn around, but Slay glanced past him. “Ah, and it's the kittybeard and zombie friend. Tch, I can't go anywhere without being mobbed by groupies.”

 

“Get out of the way,” he heard Michael again, could almost feel his glare upon him. “Unless you want me to cut you down.”

 

Then he heard Heldalf chanting, felt a wave a dark energy: _“...send him beyond the reach of man, beyond the reach of gods, to the land where none shall free him-”_

 

He could hear Michael running behind him, closing in on him. Maybe he cried out - maybe not - but he lunged towards the Shepherd, blade poised. The last thing he saw was the swinging giant sword miss him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“Never forget your mission. Sorey must not live.”_

 

* * *

He heard running water. Mikleo stirred slightly, his cheek pressed against something flat and cool. Alabaster? The alabaster paths of Muse' garden? Then that must be the stream he heard...

 

No. He was in the edge of Rolance, fighting for his life.

 

Swallowing a surge of dread, he opened his eyes.

 

He was in Elysia.

 

He blinked, and then realized something was wrong. The sky wasn't the intense blue he remembered, rather a dull, steel blue that lent the air itself a gray tinge. He also realized that, though he could see one of the alabaster pathways, he wasn't lying on it. He was lying in a field of wild flowers. At least, he saw grass and flowers. Frowning, he passed his hand through the stalks. He felt nothing. An illusion then.

 

He stood, looking around. “Muse?”

 

No answer. That by itself was strange. Muse could hear him from anywhere in Elysia, and she almost always answered. Mikleo bit his lower lip. However much this looked like home, he knew it wasn't.

 

Its familiarity made it all the worse. He walked the alabaster path, knowing it would lead him to - yes, there was his favorite swimming spot. And there was the field where he had first practiced his swordfighting. And there was Muse's favorite pool, surrounding by lilies. He bent over it. The water was dark and held no reflection.

 

Mikleo continued walking, turning onto the most familiar path of all. It was here that he found his surprise. The path led to a thin, alabaster arch, under which were small flower bushes. There should have been a low bed as well. Mikleo's bed. Muse had told him he had always slept there, even as a baby. He remembered waking up his last morning, staring up at the blue sky and wondering if the human realm's sky would look anything like it. But the small copse was empty.

 

“So, looks like you got caught up in this shitstorm too.”

 

Mikleo spun. He'd only ever heard his own and Muse' voice in Elysia. Now Muse was nowhere and Slay was speaking to him. Slay surveyed their surroundings, hands in his pockets, gauntlets hovering to either side, greenish swords fanned out behind, but the fiery sword one was nowhere to be seen. Slay's eyebrow raised.

 

“Did Heldalf's artes do this? Or...am I dead?”

 

Slay stared at him a moment, then laughed. “You keep forgetting you can't die, huh? Nah, you're still alive.”

 

“Can we get out?”

 

He didn't answer.

 

Mikleo remembered Heldalf's chant: _...the land where none shall free him..._

 

“I think we're stuck here.”

 

He shrugged. “That isn't their style. They don't want to imprison me. They're out for blood.”

 

Mikleo glanced at the empty archway again, then stepped away from it, towards Slay. He glanced to the side. The familiar surroundings, far from encouraging him, were disquieting.

 

“I suppose I should get back to trying to kill you.”

 

He sighed, more than a little impatiently. “Hey, even I get sick of that after a while. Just give it a rest, would you?” He started walking away.

 

Mikleo watched him a moment. Well, the only possible advantage he'd ever get was surprise. So he'd just have to wait for a chance. He followed Slay. Then he changed his mind and walked alongside him. If Slay reacted, he didn't notice it.

 

“You've never seen this place before?” Mikleo asked after a moment.

 

“That's what I said.”

 

They passed one of many streams in Elysia. This was the one Mikleo had fallen off of when he was eight.

 

“When I talked to Laila, she showed me an image of you here.”

 

Slay looked sharply at him.

 

“You were here, talking to Muse and her.”

 

Slay glanced around, less indifferently this time. “So this is Elysia?”

 

“Yes. At least...I think it's trying to be.”

 

Slay walked in silence for a moment. “You talked to Laila? You mean, she talked back?”

 

“As well as she could.”

 

They were now walking through a grove of trees, towards one of the cleared areas Mikleo thought of as a park.

 

“Well, her mind's pretty screwed up, so I wouldn't trust what she said.”

 

Mikleo glanced at him. “She knew - well, she told me she knew you in her past life. And you two were here.”

 

Slay looked genuinely puzzled. “She shouldn't even remember her past life. And...I swear I've never been here before.”

 

The grove opened up into the park. They stopped.

 

Across the white alabaster was a long trail of blood.

 

Slay's eyes slid over and past it, and then he was looking at one of the trees as if it were more interesting. Mikleo looked at the blood, then Slay, remembering the vision Laila had sent her, Fethus Moima, Laila bleeding while Slay... He looked down again. The blood was still wet.

 

Slay stepped around the blood and kept walking. Mikleo didn't move. “You've never been here before?”

 

Slay stopped and looked back at him, and he expected a torrent of sarcasm, but he said nothing.

 

“I grew up here,” Mikleo said. “I never saw blood on the paths. So...”

 

“You're saying this place is a figment of _my_ memory then?” Slay asked. “Funny, you think I'd have some clue why I'm here.” His glance dropped to the pool of blood again and he turned away.

 

“But-”

 

“Listen!” Now he was practically shouting. “Don't make me grind you into the pavement.”

 

“Sorry,” Mikleo said after he'd caught up. “I'm just trying to figure out what's going on.”

 

“Sorry?” he repeated. “You're waiting to kill me, but first you're going to say sorry?” He wasn't smiling.

 

They walked for a few more minutes in silence, Mikleo looking around him. It should be his home. It should be the safest place in the world. It wasn't.

 

“You know,” he said as they walked along the slow curves of the river, “I want to die honestly.”

 

Slay flicked him a look.

 

“I don't think I'm going to be able to kill you. I don't even know why I'm supposed to kill you - or Sorey - or anybody. And the next time you kill me, it's for keeps.”

 

He stopped walking. So did Mikleo. “The artes and Crystal that kept bringing me back was destroyed several weeks ago.” Slay stared at him as Mikleo showed him his forehead by sweeping back his bang. “Michael did it.”

 

Slay ran his eyes up and down him, then back to his face, to his circlet. “You mean when you became my supposedly devoted minion, you were on borrowed time?”

 

He sighed, fixing back his bangs then shrugged, “No more borrowed than any other mortal.”

 

Slay snorted. “Well, that was ballsy.”

 

Mikleo saw a flash of color behind him, down the riverbank. “Michael's here.”

 

Slay cocked his head. “If this is one of these, 'I look the other way, you stab me in the back' gambits, just understand I _will_ turn around in time to gut you.”

 

He whipped himself around, flamming sword forming along his arm, parrying Michael's sword blow. Michael fell back several paces, sword swinging around him defensively. Slay still faced him, casually presenting his back to Mikleo.

 

“Where's your asshat kittybeard?”

 

“The curse was only supposed to transport the two of us,” Michael replied. “My prey and I.” He looked past Slay, at Mikleo. “Leave us, misbegotten child.”

 

“Hey, there's enough ass-kicking for everybody. I don't play favorites. Well, actually, no, I do, but that's okay. I still have time for you, zombie turd.”

 

Michael rushed towards him. Slay sidestepped, his sword lashing across his opponent's face. Michael's bandages fell away, but he shrugged off the blow. He also didn't slow down.

 

Mikleo had no time to draw his blade. As Michael's sword swung towards him, it was met by Slay's giant sword, clanging against it.

 

“Sorry, already earmarked this one as my own kill. You'll have to settle for me.”

 

Michael roared and flung himself at the Lord of Calamity. Their weapons clattered together, and it was Michael who gave ground first.

 

“You died easily enough the first time,” he panted.

 

One hand held his side. As he breathed, Mikleo could see the pale gleam of bone through his torn skin. Slay didn't reply to that beyond narrowing his eyes.

 

They engaged again, the dull light striking off their weapons. Mikleo hesitated, wondering if he should join, try to tip the odds in Michael's favor. Somehow, he didn't dare.

 

The two swords scraped across each other, Slay tossing the sword into the air. Michael held up his hand, directing the sword point-first at Slay. Slay slashed his unguarded stomach, dodging the blade.

 

“You did remember I'm a god, right? Or did you forget that you're a half-rotted sack of maggots?” He swiped the fiery sword across Michael's neck.

 

Mikleo could hardly believe it, but Michael reeled back, his sword clattering to the ground. He pressed both hands onto his neck, as if trying to hold his life inside by sheer force of will.

 

“Any last words?” Slay asked. “I was nice and didn't cut the windpipe.” He glanced at Mikleo, eyes dancing. “Wasn't I sweet?”

 

Brownish-red blood was streaming from beneath Michael's hands. He toppled to his knees. “You - you -”

 

“I - I -” Slay prompted.

 

“...took what I love.” Michael fell forward onto his face. “My world...and...my... Mikleo...”

 

There was silence.

 

Slay stepped forward and cleanly decapitated the corpse. Then he looked up. “I get the world bit, but who's Mikleo?”

 

Mikleo's hand was pressed to him chestbone, above his pounding heart. “My name is...”

 

Slay looked from him to the corpse. “Is it?” He kicked the body. “Some relation of yours?”

 

He tightened his lips, forcing himself not to throw up. “I don't know. I don't have any family except for Muse.”

 

Slay shrugged. “Anyway.”

 

He raised his sword to eye level. “You wanna die too?”

 

Mikleo closed his eyes, then reached back and withdrew his blade, hoping his death would be as quick as Michael's.

 

“Honestly, I don't want to die.” he met Slay's eyes. “I want to live. I've always wanted to. Even without the artes.”

 

“Yeah, but you also want to kill me.”

 

He thought of Margaret and Sindra, the fear of his helplessness before Slay.

 

“I wish I could kill you. I wish I had that power. But if Muse freed me from my mission...”

 

“You'd let me live?” He laughed. “O, noble hero, I weep from your compassion! I'm going to lead a reformed life!”

 

Mikleo took a deep breath. “What's going to happen to my soul?”

 

Slay smiled, very sweetly. “I'll eat you. Seems like the best way to end such a deep and meaningful relationship.”

 

Mikleo gave him him own smile. “Eat hearty.”

 

Slay dove towards him, blade-first. Mikleo swung his blade up, sidestepped. The force of parrying the fiery sword made his entire body shake, and he took a half-step back, barely missing the swipe aimed at his stomach. Blood pounded in his ear as they circled, Slay cocking his sword. Mikleo concentrated on breathing and watching the flamming sword. Could he still see Michael's blood on it? Did it feed on blood?

 

Stupidly he focused on that a moment, and Slay surged toward him. Mikleo snapped his mind back under control and, guided more by instinct than strategy, pivoted away from the sword, driving his blade under towards Slay's ribs. Slay was too fast, hooking the fiery sword around his blade, preparing to disarm him. Mikleo rolled his blade out of Slay's. Almost too fast for him to register - certainly too fast for him to think - the fiery sword swept towards Mikleo. He didn't have time to parry, only fall back and lift his arm. The strike only tore his skin, too fast to hurt until it was over. Mikleo sucked in his breath, then, nerves shot through with pain and energy, lunged forward. Red flared across his chest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“You'll be all right, child.”_

 

_“I hope so.”_

 

_“I look forward to seeing you again. Though...you and I may be very different people when next we meet.”_

* * *

 

The blades slid past each other, touching just long enough to scrape, spraying blood between them. Mikleo tried to wrench his body around, amazed he was still alive, had time for a another strike. The blades crashed together, shaking his skeleton. Blood dripped like a jagged banner down Slay's front, the red startling against Slay's skin and drab clothes. Mikleo tried to step away - couldn't - Slay's eyes widened.

 

The red veins of the fiery sword snaked around Mikleo's blade, binding the two weapons. As Slay stared, as though stunned, Mikleo pulled with all his strength. Slay reflexively drew back. The weapons snapped apart, and Mikleo drove his sword into Slay's chest. Slay stepped back, out of the sword's grasp, staggering to his hip. The veins on his sword burned brightly, then the sword fell apart and clattered to the ground, making him seem oddly small without his giant weapon. Mikleo reeled back, dropping his blade in - fear?

 

“Shit.”

 

Slay's voice came as a rasp. He blinked, and Mikleo could see he was having difficulty focusing. He twisted his left hand into the wound, but blood dribbled freely around it.

 

“Lucky shot, huh? Going to gloat?”

 

Mikleo dropped to his knees, either because they could no longer support him or because it felt wrong to be standing over him as Sorey died. He'd slumped onto his side, supported by his elbow. His normally pallid face was white, his eyes wide and dark.

 

“What?” Slay asked. “You're going to apologize? Don't look at me with that face. You're supposed to be making a speech about how I deserve this.”

 

Mikleo watched as he lowered himself onto his back, staring up at the sky, breathing erratically.

 

“I still don't...know why I'm here.” He closed his eyes. For a long time, Mikleo listened to the sound of his breathing.

 

And then Mikleo heard nothing.

 

Mikleo released a long, ragged breath. He looked down at Sorey's blood running on the alabaster path - Mikleo 's own blood, dripping down his arm. That was all? He'd faced Death and gotten away with nothing but a scrape.

 

He'd killed him, another living, thinking being. It suddenly seemed sick that he'd had the chance and taken it. He shook his head. It had been his mission. Now it was over. It was so quiet.

 

He studied Slay's face, having never seen it still before. He wasn't the Lird of Calamity anymore, he was only a body. Like anyone else after death. He reached forward and pulled Slay's hand out of his chest, resting it against his collarbone.

 

The air shivered. Mikleo drew his arm back from the body, wondering if fatigue from the battle had impaired his vision. The air trembled again.

 

“This...this isn't right,” a man's voice said.

 

Mikleo tensed, looking at the corpse. It hadn't moved, but the voice seemed to come from it, or close to it.

 

“I see Alisha, but...I never killed her. Gramps... Teacher... And...you should be dead.”

 

Mikleo fruitlessly searched for the source of the voice, but his attention always returned to the corpse.

 

“Who are you?”

 

There was a long silence after that. Mikleo thought the voice might have left - somehow - except the air around Slay's body continued to tremble, like a heat shimmer.

 

“I see it now,” the voice said abruptly. “I am a monster.”

 

“Who are you?” Mikleo asked again.

 

“I used to be Slay,” the voice said after a moment. And, as he spoke, Mikleo realized the voice did sound familiar. Thinner, the words coming more carefully, but familiar.

 

“And before that, I was Sorey.”

 

“Then...” Mikleo thought back to the visions, Slay talking with Muse, Slay crouched over Resilience. “Laila was right.”

 

“Laila?” the voice repeated. Then the voice shifted, became rougher.

 

“Fethus Moima? That - wretch? Who took her own life just to-” The voice quickly cut off, the air shaking more violently. After more than a minute, it stilled somewhat, and Mikleo thought he heard a whisper.

 

“Laila.”

 

“What happened to you?” Mikleo's gaze hovered between the corpse's face and the air-shimmer. “How did you become Slay?”

 

“I'm only beginning to piece it all together. Sorey was killed by Alisha, and I...was reborn with a terrible anger in my heart.”

 

The voice didn't speak for a long time.

 

“The Shepherd should not be wounded by the injustice and held malevolence. I called myself the Lord of Calamity, but no one lords it, no one ever understands it. Not calamity. Not Malevolence. I was killed easily, and added with the pain from losing Laila... I... Laila... before I could stop her, she...” Mikleo didn't break the silence.

 

“Sorey's pain was the first aspect of life Slay knew, and though I was brought into the care of...people who did not wish Glenwood well, they did not have to work hard to make me despise the world.”

 

“So-” Mikleo wondered if this sounded as insane as he suspected it did “-who are you now? Slay or Sorey?”

 

The voice waited before replying. “I don't know. Both. Neither.”

 

“Do you think you're Sorey?”

 

There was another hesitation, then the voice laughed, sounding very close to Slay for a moment.

 

“You want to know if you still have to kill me?”

 

Mikleo wasn't sure if the laugh made things better or worse.

 

“Why does Muse want you dead? She - never said you were a bad person.”

 

“Whether or not you die has nothing to do with the sort of person you are. I suspect - I hope - Muse wants me at rest.”

 

“I don't understand.”

 

“Wherever my soul goes, it takes Slay and Sorey with it. Sorey, suffering from an unjust death, and Slay, warped by hate. Both unhallowed. I can only cleanse myself by reentering the cycle.”

 

Mikleo glanced around the dreamlike surroundings, at Michael's corpse.

 

“He has already passed on,” the voice said, as though he'd asked a question. “Nothing binds him to this dead world, my memory. I doubt Heldalf even knew what he imprisoned us in. Neither did I until now.” The voice paused again. “I'm not worthy to be here, not even in a cage that resembles Elysia.”

 

“If you want to move on, why are you still here?”

 

Slay's corpse hadn't moved, nor had the shimmer. Still, Mikleo had the undeniable feeling the voice was looking directly at him. He looked back.

 

“Pain links me to this dream. To break its bonds, I need a guide.”

 

Mikleo didn't want to speak. “You're the Shepherd.”

 

“My sword was broken.”

 

Mikleo glanced down the path, to where his sword had fallen from his arm. Then he tensed.

 

He barely remembered dropping the ceremonial blade. He couldn't have dropped it so close to the sword. It must have moved. Somehow, the red veins of the sword had coiled up the ceremonial red blade. Its tip bore the long sword that had killed so many, sword and blade clasped together.

 

“Wait-” Mikleo's breath came too fast. “What does this mean?”

 

“I think you know.”

 

“You want _me_ to guide you? But I-”

 

“You swore to.” Mikleo jumped, but he went on. “By guiding me out of this existence, you will kill me. That's what death really is: freeing the soul back into the cycle.”

 

Mikleo curled his fingers into fists, to keep them from shaking. “If I touch that...sword, do I become the Shepherd?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Forever?”

 

Again, he had the feeling the voice was watching him.

 

“I don't know. It might be forever. It might only be for a moment.”

 

Mikleo stared at the entwined weapons, then turned to Slay's corpse.

 

“I know you owe me no debts,” the voice said softly. “I can only beg you to release me.”

 

Mikleo looked at Slay's hand, glistening with blood. The blood he'd drawn.

 

“What will happen to us? When we leave this world? In the soul cycle. Will I die?”

 

The voice didn't answer.

 

He forced a laugh. “You sure aren't helpful.”

 

“I don't know,” the voice came back, a slight edge of humor to it. “Gods don't normally die, let alone twice.” It became thoughtful. “I don't even know what I'll come back as. I know I deserve a weighty penance for my crimes, of both lives.”

 

“And you need me to guide you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Mikleo drew a long, slow breath. He stood, walked over to the weapons. Grasping the blade's hilt, he lifted it. The hilt was familiar, but the sword's weight was not. He studied the curve. He could see his own blood on it.

 

“Okay,” he said. “Let's do this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Deoba smiled with satisfaction at his sign: _DeobPods: Deoba's Prize Winning Soft Cream,_ painted in blue and yellow. It didn't look half bad hung over the front door of his house, in plain view of any travelers who passed by on the way to New Dame du Lac. The plans to rebuild the city had finally begun, and he knew plenty of people would now be leaving the boondocks, eager for money and opportunity. And Soft Cream. Oh, yes.

 

His eldest child, six year old Sindra, thumped into him, her brow butting his hip. “Da-ad, Mo's being a poop-head.”

 

“Poop-head isn't a nice thing to call someone,” Deoba recited, stepping away from her to consider the sign from a slight distance. “And Mo's only three, so you should learn to ignore him.”

 

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes with a sarcasm beyond her years. “I can't _wait_ for Mom to pop out the next baby.” She chewed her pinkie nail while Deoba surveyed the house. It seemed to be...holding up. It was nothing like the hut he'd grown up in, nor even the hut he'd brought his wife home to. But people were finding that, without the threat of the reaper, they were able to devote time to building more permanent structures, closer communities. He studied the flat roof. He could learn to like it.

 

“Hey, Dad, did you hear? They say Lady Alisha might be coming to Marlind this summer. At least, that's what Kelsey said. She didn't believe me when I told her Lady Alisha is friends with a dragon. But it's true, isn't it?”

 

“Yes, yes,” Deoba said absently. “Now, I want you to help me pick some lettuce for tonight's dinner. Mom can't handle everything these days, and - oh!”

 

Sindra glanced around him to see what he was surprised by. “Ooo! Strangers!”

 

Two figures were approaching on the road that wound past their small farm.

 

Deoba leaned towards his daughter. “Go get a vanilla Soft Cream. Sit on the stoop. Talk to yourself about how yummy they are.” As Sindra ran to oblige, Deoba picked up the first tool he could find (a rake) and set about raking the grass of his front lawn, the picture of a busy, if unintelligent, farmer. As the strangers drew near, he studied them out of the corner of his eye.

 

They seemed to be of an age, both in their mid-twenties. The man was tall with dark brown hair. He had a long sword in one hand which appeared to double as a walking stick. He wore drab clothes. The other man was slightly shorter and skinny, his light blue hair cropped and, in Deoba's opinion, his clothes were more attention-grabbing than practical with all that belts. But the blade on his back seemed to be all business.

 

Just as they approached the house, Sindra flumped down in the grass, a bowl of Soft Cream on her lap.

 

“Mmmmmm, yummy. This is, like, the best vanilla soft cream I've tasted in, like, an hour. The ones I had with breakfast were yummy too. They're all so good.”

 

The strangers' strides slowed as they came abreast of the house, heads angled up to read the sign. Then they stopped. Still staring at the sign.

 

“'DopPods'?”

 

Deoba heard the shorter man mutter.

 

“Your eyesight's going,” the taller man muttered back. “It says 'PobPods'.” He turned to her. “So what's a pob?”

 

“You're the ex-gob - er - god. You tell me.”

 

Deoba hadn't heard the end of the exchange, as he was gazing sadly at his sign. It was a good sign. It _was_. His writing hadn't been that messy. Had it?

 

The shorter man stepped up to the front gate. “Hello.”

 

Deoba put on a pleasant face and bustled towards him. “Hello. Traveled far?”

 

“Yes.” He ran his hand through his hair. “We've come all the way from Pendrago. We're headed for Lefay Ruin.”

 

Deoba raised his eyebrows. “You...do know there's a giant hellion in that area? It's been destroying the crops, and I think it's killed several people.”

 

The man gave him a friendly shrug. “That's why we're going. See if we can help out. So anyway, how much for a bowl or two?”

 

“Very cheap,” Deoba sparkled.

 

The man half turned to his companion. “Hey, Ley. Do you want one?”

 

As Sindra was holding up the crate, allowing the shorter man to pick his bowl, Deoba heard his wife step outside.

 

“Bobbo, have you seen the hammer? I swear, I am going to fix that chair, I don't care how many times you tell me I can't. It creaks every time I - I - Sindra, get away!”

 

Sindra jumped back, dropping the crate. The strange man tensed, face lifted, eyes as wide as a trapped animal's. Deoba glanced at the other man, wondering if there was about to be some serious trouble, but he seemed to be looking deliberately away, his face hidden.

 

“Rose, what's wrong?”

 

Deoba crossed to his wife, standing between her and the strangers. Sindra had run back, her arms around Rose's swollen middle. Rose didn't speak, her large eyes narrowed, her lip quivering slightly.

 

“Sorry,” the light haired man whispered, backing away. The moment his heel touched the road, he turned and began walking quickly. His companion didn't linger.

 

Sindra watched until they were gone, then tilted her head back to look up at her mother. “Mommy?”

 

Rose drew a sharp breath and bit her lip.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

They hadn't talked after leaving the hotpod farm and when, an hour later, they came across a field, Mikleo said he wanted a rest. Ley shrugged. While Mikleo lay back in the grass, he wandered off.

 

He cloud-gazed for a while, trying to think only of the clouds' aimless drifting, trying not to think about Rose. He'd occasionally run into some of the Vigilantes, at least those who had lived through the final confrontation. Alisha had become famous simply by saving Edna. Mikleo had heard rumors of Ian and Lucas taking on Eguille's black markets. Odie once invited Mikleo to stay a week at his fancy home in Pendrago, though he'd looked rather concerned when he'd seen Ley. Luckily he hadn't asked questions, because Mikleo wasn't sure how he would've answered them. He was glad, for everyone's sake, that Dio hadn't been there.

 

But Rose...that was one reunion he'd hoped would never take place. Mikleo closed his eyes, remembering Rose's face, the mixture of fear and anger, old wounds reopened. He sighed, and as he breathed in, he smelled something familiar.

 

Mikleo sat up, then crawled through the grass to a spot of color: a spearlike spray of purple flowers.

 

 _It's my favorite flower,_ he remembered being told.

 

_It's called loosestrife._

 

“What's wrong?” came Ley's voice, rather kindly. Mikleo realized he'd been on hands and knees in front of the flower, unmoving, for at least a minute.

 

“Um...well. Nothing.” He shrugged and sat up in a kneeling position.

 

Ley sighed. “Can you hear me rolling my eyes? Here, I'll do it again.”

 

Mikleo ran his hand over the buds. “I just...I don't know. I don't think I'll ever see her again.”

 

Ley reached down and fingered Mikleo's hair, lightly rubbing the nape of his neck. “Let's hope not.”

 

Mikleo frowned up at him in confusion, then shook his head. “No, not...Rose. I meant...” He sighed and stood. “I meant Muse.”

 

“I wouldn't commit myself to never seeing her again.” Ley stepped back and started walking away. “She's a slippery bitch.”

 

Mikleo gave the loosestrife one last look, then caught up in a few strides. “It's been eight years. If she wanted to see me again, she could've...”

 

Ley looked sharply at him. “Do you want to go back to Elysia?”

 

“No,” he admitted. It was a question he'd asked and answered many times over the years. “Not to stay. But - still - she could've come here.”

 

“Hell knows she probably will,” Ley replied grimly. “She'll drop in when we least want her, yapping about some grand destiny she's picked out for us. All she needs is a big screw-up for us to fix. I'm still waiting on that penance to atone for my past lives.”

 

Mikleo sighed, then took a deep breath, letting himself laugh. “Count your blessings. We've been walking for half a day, the road ends here and it looks we'll have to trudge through fields now, I forgot our food back at the inn, and we're headed for an angry giant hellion”

 

“I am noble and pure of heart,” Ley replied. “Such trivialities do not qualify as penance.” Then muttered, “You lard-brained wench.”

 

Mikleo lengthened his stride. “If I can hope that I'll see Muse again, you can hope we'll find food somewhere.”

 

Ley sighed and began switching his sword as they walked, moodily cutting the long grass.

 

“I hope Rose doesn't spread rumors,” Mikleo said presently. No one but he and Ley knew that he had killed the Lord of Calamity. No one had been there when they struggled out and returned to Gleenwood. Still, someone might have heard a story, might remember that he once had been unable to die. And... “I hope she didn't recognize _you_.”

 

He shrugged. “Who'd believe her if she did?”

 

“I hope you're right.” Mikleo shook out his hair, thinking. “Alisha, Lucas, Sergei... they're the war heroes. People can spread rumors about them. Honestly...I'm glad nobody really knows who I am.”

 

He smiled. “So I'm a nobody now? What makes you think anyone will remember you instead of me?”

 

Mikleo stared up at the sky. After a moment, Ley's voice broke through his musings.

 

“Stop brooding on it, Mikleo. You'll see her again.”

 

“It's all right,” Mikleo said after a moment. He glanced at Ley. “I'm with you. I'm not bored.”

* * *

 

_"Walk the path you believe in and live your life to the fullest, and I know you will not go ashtray.”_

 

 

* * *

 

END


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